


Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch

by freshwoods



Series: Summertime Romance [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Artist Steve Rogers, Baseball, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Celebrity Steve Rogers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fireworks, Fluff, Fourth of July, Gay Bucky Barnes, Homophobia, Idiots in Love, Kid Fic, Kid Tony Stark, LGBTQ Themes, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pet Names, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Squint and you'll miss it, Trans Character, Transphobia, Uncle Bucky Barnes, Uncle Sam Wilson, gratuitous use of pet names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 19:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15540897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshwoods/pseuds/freshwoods
Summary: Bucky never meant to make a friend in Mrs. “Call me Sarah, Sugar Pie” Rogers, yet he wouldn’t change it for the world. With the looming prospect of a baseball-filled summer for his nephew, a work schedule at his flower shop that will probably kill him, and the hope of maybe finally meeting Sarah’s son, Bucky thinks this summer will shape up to be an interesting one after all.





	Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I've been working on this for a while now, and it's finally done! I'm really excited to share this with all of you and I hope you like it!
> 
> Quick notes:  
> I took liberties with how little league works, because idk it's been sooooo many years since I played baseball.  
> There are quite a few heavy issues in here but I tried my very best to handle them with grace while still giving them their due and keeping this story light, so please keep that in mind while reading.  
> Any mistakes are my fault, because I'm my own beta.  
> Special thanks to my bff B for practically co-writing this with me. Ily.  
> Sarah Rogers is 100% based on my grandmother.  
> I think I got all the tags, but please let know if I missed any.
> 
> One last shout-out to [goandgetthegun](http://goandgetthegun.tumblr.com/) for the incredible and amazing art!

Bucky decided long ago that Mrs. “Call me Sarah, Sugar Pie” Rogers is the best neighbor he could’ve ever asked for. Even three years ago, when he met her for the first time, Bucky for some reason drawn to the badly-in-need-of-a-coat-of-paint exterior of the house, to the gardens out front, plants long dead, soil hard, she was there, standing on her front lawn next door, calling him sweetie, telling him some anecdote about the people who used to live in the house—perhaps in the hope that humanizing the structure, turning it into a _home_ in Bucky’s mind, would make him more keen to buy it—and Bucky remembers she made him laugh, then, for the first time since—

Well, she was great from the start, is his point. Even after he and his best friend, Sam, moved into the modest house, Sam working on the renovations inside while Bucky worked on the outside—lawn, gardens, landscaping—anything to keep busy, anything to bring color and beauty back into the world around them. She used to come over at all hours of the day, just wander over from her yard to talk about the trim, or the gutters, or what he’ll be planting in his gardens when he starts to till, and then Bucky thinks to ask her what kind of ligularia she’s growing on the side of her house and it’s all downhill from there. Even after Sam eventually returns to the Air Force—Bucky’s work on the house not quite done, but a sizable dent complete—and Bucky’s left alone again, he knows he’s never truly alone with a neighbor like her.

He never meant to make a friend in Mrs. Sarah Rogers, but somewhere in his three years of living next to her, she became almost a godsend, became a surrogate mother, became a friend.

And the thing about Sarah is that she’s like no other sixty-something-year-old Bucky’s ever met. She’s quick witted, sharp humored, always on the go but is very homey, and has a vast affection for pet names and telling stories. Bucky thinks she’s got a story for everything—and only when Bucky thinks he’s heard them all, and she starts in on a new one, does he really learn to appreciate it. She’s vivacious and kind and—after Bucky’s world gets upended again, when Bucky’s nephew, Freddie, comes to live with him, she welcomes him, too, with open arms.

So, over the years, Bucky hears all about Sarah’s son, Steven. He’s heard about what a hellion he could be, but also about how he’s one of the kindest people Sarah’s ever met— _“And I’m not just saying that because he does his Mama proud. I’m saying it because it’s true. You’ll see one day, James.”_ —Case in point, he bought the house Sarah currently lives in outright for her once he started making money in his career—Sarah never does tell Bucky just what that _is_ , though. But conversations with Sarah on that topic always seem to fall into her sighing and sadly telling Bucky how unhappy she was that he chose a “well-paying job” over his art. He’s seen some of the artwork, here and there around her house—acrylic paintings of trees and wildlife, charcoal sketches of a younger Sarah laughing, a watercolor one of some Bleeding Hearts done in blue that Bucky secretly loves—

But he’s still never actually met the guy.

Which, on one hand, isn’t bad. Maybe Bucky likes the air of mystery around him. He gets to build him up in his head a little bit, gets to think of him as someone who deserves to have Sarah Rogers as a mother. And it’s not like Bucky’s been _not_ _meeting_ him on purpose. Not like Bucky’s planning on avoiding Steven at all now that he’s moving in with Sarah for a while. It just always happened that, for whatever reasons, Steven could only come back to visit his mom on the major holidays—and until the accident, Bucky always spent the holidays with Becca and Gabe and Freddie.

But now it’s just Bucky and Freddie left, his little sister and their childhood friend who grew up to be his sister’s one true love dying in a car accident a little over seven months before. It’s a wound that still hurts when Bucky thinks about it, or when he looks at Freddie sometimes, the ten-year-old boy having gone through more suffering in his short lifetime than most people ever have to experience, and sees Becca in the way Freddie smiles, or hears Gabe in the way he talks.

Bucky was supposed to be the fun uncle, the one Freddie would go to when his parents became overbearing—and they would bitch about them behind their backs and Bucky would let him stay up all night eating junk food, until Freddie eventually confided in him, a bond of uncle and nephew. But Bucky can’t go back to the role he played before. He’s Freddie’s guardian—raising him as his own, the two of them the last family each has, with Becca and their mom gone, and Gabe’s parents dying before Gabe and Becca married—just him and Freddie left. Now they’re stuck together, holding onto each other with a dependency that terrifies and overwhelms Bucky when he thinks about it. And there are moments, when Bucky allows himself to really think about everything—when Freddie cries out in the middle of the night for his mother, when he comes home with his nose bloodied or his lip split, or when he falls quiet, looking at his hands, so uncomfortable in his own skin, dealing with his own issues on top of the grief—that Bucky knows he’s going to fail him. It’s inevitable.

It’s days like this, when he gets a call from the principal’s office of the middle school for the second time in as many weeks, and he has to go pick Freddie up because he’s been fighting— _again_ —that Bucky knows the day is coming. He’s going to fail Freddie in a way that he can’t fix. Maybe it’s already here, if the spectacular failure that was Mother’s Day last week was anything to go by. Bucky had handled it badly, the loss of his mother and sister still too raw—and Freddie had been acting out ever since. Maybe if Bucky wasn’t so hung up on his own personal tragedies, he could be the parent Freddie needs him to be. Maybe if he was more at ease with his life and how it’s changed since Freddie came to live with him, Freddie would somehow _also_ be more at ease in his own life, in his own skin. But that’s not the way things are. Bucky’s an imposter, and he knows that soon Freddie will finally see it.

Instead of letting himself dwell on it any further, Bucky goes to the school to collect his nephew, Freddie throwing his backpack on the floor of Bucky’s backseat before he gets into the truck, closing the door quietly. Bucky heads home, sneaking periodic looks in the rearview mirror back at the boy. He looks so sad—he always looks _so sad_ —with his curly hair ruffling a bit in the breeze. Bucky makes a mental note to take him to the barber’s shop soon, knowing by now that Freddie gets bent out of shape when his hair starts getting too long—too big, as Freddie would say—even though Bucky’s been trying to show him that boys can have long hair, too, by growing his own hair out. It’s almost to Bucky’s jaw now, when he doesn’t comb it back, but his effort has been useless so far.

“Do you wanna talk about it, Bud?” Bucky asks, tentatively.

Freddie just shrugs a shoulder.

Bucky lets out a small sigh and looks up momentarily, steeling himself. “Was it the same thing as last time?” Last time, when some little punk in his grade had said such awful, hurtful things to him, and Freddie punched him in the face to get him to shut up because he was never one to back down from a bully. It’s a bittersweet thought, makes Bucky a little sad, because neither was Gabe, who wouldn’t take shit from any racist or ignorant fool and always made sure people knew it.

Freddie looks up a little, his dark eyes red-rimmed from crying. He nods. “They were being mean.”

“I know, Kiddo, but that doesn’t mean you can hit them. You know that.”

Freddie seems to shrink down into the backseat. When he speaks, his voice is small, “I’m sorry, Uncle Bucky.”

Bucky pulls into the driveway, places the truck in park, and then turns in his seat to look at the boy. “Hey,” he says softly, “Hey, look at me, Freddie.” He waits for his eyes to lift, sad brown eyes meeting soft gray ones. “I’m not mad at you, you know that. But you can’t hit people who are mean to you. Remember what I told you to do if someone says something mean?”

“But he called me a girl!” Freddie says, petulant, crossing his arms over his chest. Bucky gives him a look—because they’ve talked, in depth, about why that _in itself_ isn’t an insult—and Freddie sighs. “You said to tell a teacher.”

“And did you do that before you hit the other kid?”

“No.” Sullen.

“And who ended up getting in trouble?”

Freddie lets out an all too weary sigh for someone all of ten. “I did.” A pause. “It’s not fair, Uncle Buck.”

Bucky’s mouth hardens into a line. “I know. But Principal Coulson said that if you get in trouble for fighting one more time, you’ll get suspended, and that means I have to ground you, and then you won’t be able to play baseball for two weeks. And I _really_ don’t want that to happen, okay?”

Freddie looks at him with wide eyes, like the thought of not being able to play baseball when the season just started is the worst thing in the entire world, and he nods so hard Bucky worries for a second that his head might come off.

“Okay. C’mon, let’s go inside. I know you got homework in that bag of yours.”

Freddie grabs his bag and all but races inside. Bucky shakes his head when he gets out of his vehicle, and only then notices the moving truck parked at the curb next door. He collects his things slowly, curiously looking to try to catch a glimpse of the infamous Steven Rogers. But all he sees is the mover—tall, wearing some kind of windbreaker with a logo on it Bucky can’t make out, khakis, a baseball cap, and boots—dragging some cardboard boxes from the back to slide neatly on a hand truck before wheeling them inside.

Bucky takes a moment to admire the man’s broad shoulders before walking inside to start dinner.

-

-

Bucky lets himself into Sarah’s house the next morning, a fresh bouquet of flowers in his hand. He always comes in through the back, the French doors left unlocked for him to get into her kitchen. He goes to the table, sees the tea cups and saucers already set—just two, he notes, one for him and one for her, and wonders if Sarah’s son is here yet—and replaces the flowers in the vase on the table—just starting to die—with the fresh ones he picked last night at the greenhouse.

Sarah comes into the kitchen as he finishes the arrangement. “Oh, Sugar Pie, they’re beautiful!” She says, walking over to stand next to him. The unsaid _as always_ hangs in the air between them and Bucky smiles. “But you shouldn’t have.”

Bucky snorts a little and moves to the stove, filling the kettle before he turns on the burner. “Y’know, you keep saying that to me and one day I’ll actually show up empty handed.”

She mock-gasps and Bucky looks back at her just in time to see her clutch at her heart. “James Barnes, you would never.”

He laughs a little and opens a cupboard, rifling through for the tea he’s looking for—jasmine for Sarah, English Breakfast for him—before he heads back over to the table. He sits down and lets out a breath. Sarah looks at him like only a mother can—that pointed stare like she can see right into his soul—and Bucky knows what she’s going to ask before the words even come out of her mouth. “Did something happen with Freddie?”

Bucky sighs once more, reaching out to ready their tea just to do something with his hands. “He got into a fight again. Some kids were bullying him.”

Sarah makes a ‘hmp’ sound, her lips turning down at the corners. “There’s nothing so cruel as school children. Did he get hurt?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No. But he bloodied the other kid’s nose.” He sits down, smiling slightly, even though he knows the situation is the opposite of funny. “I just…don’t know what to do about it all.”

The kettle starts to whistle and Bucky makes to get up but Sarah waves her hand at him, getting up to bring the kettle over, pouring the water as she speaks. “You know, I don’t know if I ever told you, James, but my Steven—he used to get in spats all the time when he was growing up, would downright seek them out. Was a point, he’d come home on the daily with bloodied knuckles or black eyes, and no matter what I said, it never did stop him.” She sits down, wrapping her hands around her cup, letting the tea steep as she talks. She looks a little wistful now, not looking at Bucky, but the memory of whatever she sees in her head. “It used to scare me. If you would’ve known Steven back then—eighty-pound thing—little Steven—always sick, no matter what I did. You’d think being a nurse meant I could help my own son, but I never really could. He’d come home some days in the middle of an attack, barely able to breathe, blood still wet from his nose to his shirt collar.” She shakes her head and looks back to Bucky. “But time and time, I’d ask him why he got into another fight, why he couldn’t just walk away. And you know what he would say to me?” She waits for Bucky to shake his head. “He’d say, ‘Ma, if I don’t stand up to the bullies, who will?’”

Bucky takes a sip of his tea. “But, it wasn’t really his responsibility to take on, was it? I mean, wasn’t he just making it worse for himself?” And if Bucky projects his feelings about Freddie a little too much into the question, Sarah doesn’t say a thing.

She just gives him a rueful smile. “The thing about Steven is that no one else could make up his mind for him. They still can’t. It did no good for me to tell him that bullies just wait for someone like him, for the little guy, so they can tear someone else down to build themselves up. To my son, what he went through was worth it, because it was one less friend of his who got picked on, or was made fun of, or went home crying. We all have our own battles, Sugar Pie.”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, thinking about what she said. “I just don’t want Freddie to get hurt.” His voice sounds small, even to his own ears, and he stares down at the dark liquid in his cup, stark against the porcelain.

Sarah lets out a soft sigh, and when he meets her eyes, he sees her age in them—sad, a little lonely, but wise enough, and knowing. “That’s the thing about raising a child, though. They’re going to get hurt, one way or the other. It’s not on you to protect them from it; it’s on you to know enough to let it be on their own terms.”

Bucky reaches out then, taking her hand in his, a small, grateful smile tugging at his lips. “Where have you been all my life, Sarah Rogers?”

He watches her melt a little, then, her eyes going soft, reminding Bucky all too viscerally of his own mother, of the way she used to look at him. He swallows hard, then clears his throat. “I hope your son knows just how lucky he is to have you as his mother.” He waits a moment, until her burst of sweet-sounding laughter falls away. “When is he due to move in, anyway? I really wanna meet this kid.”

Sarah’s face lights up even more—something Bucky thought wouldn’t be possible—her smile widening. “He got here yesterday! Don’t go upstairs—boxes everywhere, I swear. Cooked me a nice homemade dinner—yams and some kind of chicken with avocado—what did he call it, grilled California?—but he had to leave early this morning.” She takes a breath, waving her hand again, “Something about a meeting to tie up loose ends from his job? But, oh, James, I can’t _wait_ for you to finally meet him!”

Bucky smiles, thinking about what she just told him, about the little boy who grew up in Brooklyn, purposefully picking fights with bullies—and yeah, yeah, Bucky can’t wait to meet him either.

-

-

As it turns out, every time Bucky sees Sarah for the rest of the week after that, her son is never around. If Bucky stops over, or waves at Sarah as he takes Freddie to school, or they are both out in their yards gardening, she’s always alone and Steven is always away “tying up loose ends from his job”. Bucky hasn’t even seen a peep of him. Hell, he wouldn’t even think Steven _actually_ existed if it weren’t for the fact that Bucky saw the mover with all of his things, and that said things start to slowly integrate themselves onto Sarah’s shelves, and coats and shoes much too big for her appear in her open storage area by the front door.

It’s an unassuming day at the end of May, not yet stifling hot, with just enough rain that the grass is vivid and the flowers bloom beautifully. He walks along the small stone path that winds around his vegetable garden in back and leads up to Sarah’s yard, smiling to himself at the memory of Sarah overseeing Sam and him laying the stones, put down to her satisfaction.

Bucky’s been a florist for years now, practically grew up in the trade, always at his mother’s shop after school with Becca, the two of them doing their homework behind the counter while their mom cut and arranged vase after vase. He’s spent most of his life doing the same thing, day after day—and it’s not that Bucky doesn’t like his job, because he does—but he gets lost to the routine of things easily, and it’s not very often that Bucky gets a break from it.

Today, he was supposed to be in the greenhouse all day with Bobbi and Robbie, but then Hunter needed to leave early for an appointment, so Bucky ended up going up into the storefront and covering the register with Wanda for a bit before he had to leave to get Freddie. But today, today had been different. Because today, Bucky got to help the most attractive man he’s seen since moving back here pick out flowers for his mother. He came in with wind-tousled blond hair and a charming smile, if a little shy, like he wasn’t used to frequenting flower shops. Which—yeah, he definitely didn’t look the type—not with those linebacker shoulders—but then he’d come up to the counter and asked so sweetly for Bucky’s help, because he knew nothing about flowers, but his mother did, and she’d know if he got her cheap flowers.

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh at that, a picture of his own mother flashing in his head. He signaled Wanda over to work the register and comes around front, leading the guy around to the other side of the store, asking him questions about the man’s mother—favorite flower? (“No idea. Pointy ones?”) Favorite color? (“Red, I think. I’m pretty sure it’s red.”)—until Bucky came across some of his new stock. In the end, Bucky went with a simple, elegant bouquet of pink and white amaryllises and white orchids with a red vase. He tied a polka-dotted bow on for good measure, and when the man had asked him his name, Bucky had dumbly responded and handed the bouquet to him. The stranger paid and then lingered for a moment, smiling once again at him in a way that made Bucky’s knees feel weak, and whispered a “Thank you, Bucky. You’ve got a magic touch,” that Wanda immediately started ribbing him for after the man left.

Nonetheless, Bucky’s day had improved exponentially after that. He smiled so much when he picked Freddie up after school to drive him to baseball practice that Freddie had asked what was wrong with him, which only made Bucky laugh and the dubious look on Freddie’s face become more of a scowl.

Still, he can’t keep from grinning. The man’s easy smile lingers in his mind like little has in the wake of Becca and Gabe’s death. There’s a part of Bucky that wished he had asked the stranger his name, a part of him that secretly hopes that the man will come back to the shop again. But then there’s another, smaller part of him that hopes he doesn’t, because as long as he doesn’t know who the man is, and as long as he never sees him again, he can build it up in his head to whatever he wants. By now, Bucky knows that reality is mostly a letdown.

But he’s still smiling, still on his way over to Sarah’s with a fresh bouquet, to tell her all about the encounter, because he knows she’ll get a kick out of it, and ask Bucky all about him, and then Bucky can finally gush a little while Freddie’s at practice, like he’s been wanting to since the man first walked into his place. He may be a parent now, but he’s not dead.

Bucky goes to open the back doors, but they are locked. He frowns, looking down at the handles like they’ve personally offended him. Sarah never locks these doors unless she’s out of town, and Bucky saw her car in the drive earlier. He sighs and shifts the bouquet to his other hand in order to fish his keys out of his pocket. It’s only when they are in his hand that he remembers Sarah making a comment to him a few days before about how Steven is a “city boy” who feels the need to lock all the doors before he goes to sleep at night—which, of course, Sarah told him, resulted in her doing some last minute, late night gardening, and being locked out on the veranda.

Bucky snickers a bit at the memory of her scowl and goes through his keys until he finds the one for the door to Sarah’s house. They’d exchanged house keys long before Freddie moved in with him, each of them pledging to watch the other’s place when one of them went out of town. Bucky doesn’t use his key very often, but he has no qualms about letting himself into her house. He unlocks the French doors and goes into the kitchen, making a b-line for the vase that always sits on her table.

But he can’t see the vase.

He can’t see the vase because the very, very attractive stranger from the flower shop stands between him and it.

Correction: the very, very attractive stranger from the flower shop stands between him and it, with a _golf club_ raised threateningly, and in Bucky’s general direction.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Bucky fans his hands out in front of him—or tries his best to, with the bouquet still in one and his keys in the other. He tries to take a step back but just runs into the door behind him. Attractive stranger blinks at him dumbly, looking at the flowers in Bucky’s hand. Meanwhile, Bucky can’t help but look between the golf club and the man’s face. “Easy there, Buddy! Why do you have a golf club? Oh my _god_ , please don’t club me to death!”

The man blinks again, but the club in his hands starts to lower. “I…I thought you were a burglar?”

Bucky lowers his hands as well, but only to get a better grip on his keys in case he needs to punch attractive stranger out. _See_ , the small part of his brain tells him. _Reality is always a letdown._ “Yeah, and what are you?”

“Steven!” Sarah shouts from somewhere in the house and both men freeze, looking toward the entryway. “Steven, there was a delivery for you from—” She walks into the kitchen with a small stack of mail in her hands and freezes. “Oh, good heavens Honey, put that thing away!”

She rushes toward attractive stranger—Steven? This— _this_ is Steven???—and grabs the golf club. “What are you doing with this silly thing anyway?” She turns, as if to put the club back, but then sees Bucky. The exasperated expression on her face morphs into a smile. “James, Dear!” She looks between Bucky and Steven and makes both of them flinch when she claps her hands together and emits the closest thing to a squeal that Bucky’s ever heard come out of her mouth.

“Oh, it’s so lovely that you two’ve finally met! I’ve been waiting for this day for so long!” Sarah practically beams as she turns back toward Steven. “Steven, this is James, the sweetheart who lives next door. Oh, but you already know that of course!” She links Steven’s arm in hers and pulls him around with her—Sarah so small next to her son—until they face the kitchen table. It’s only then that Bucky notices the bouquet— _his_ bouquet he made for Steven earlier—on the table. “I knew it was your work the moment I saw it, James. He has an eye for color—just like you, Honey Bunch, wouldn’t you say?”

Steven looks at Bucky for the first time since his mother came into the room, and for some reason it looks like Steven just now _sees_ him, but like what he sees in Bucky confuses him. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.” Steven looks to the flowers being crushed in Bucky’s grip and then back to the table in front of him, then back to Bucky, to stare at him.

Bucky glances back at him for a long moment, then notices Sarah is still gazing dreamily at the flowers on her table. Suddenly, he feels very silly and out of place in her kitchen, with flowers for a woman who already has a son to get her some. It hits Bucky that as much as he’d liked to pretend over the last three years, Sarah is not his mother, and he is not her son. Having her in his life had been a blessing after his own mother passed, almost a balm for his soul. Having Sarah had made losing his own mother easier, in a way. But Steven is here now, and Bucky needs to accept that things are going to change—that they already have.

Bucky clears his throat. “Well, I—uh. Oh, look at the time. I have to—” He lifts the hand holding his keys and points over his shoulder with his thumb when Sarah glances at him. “Freddie. Goodnight, S—Mrs. Rogers.” His eyes gravitate toward attractive stranger—who is not a stranger anymore. “Steven. Nice to meet you.”

He turns around to leave and hears Sarah say “Goodnight, Sugar Pie,” as he closes the doors behind him.

-

-

If there’s one thing Bucky’s learned over the course of taking care of Freddie, it’s that little league can be brutal. Or rather, little league _parents_ can be brutal. Especially on double-header day—and _especially_ when the game schedule _just happens_ to coincide with both the end of the school year _and_ Memorial weekend. Bucky’s exhausted, having gotten up before dawn that morning to work a little in the shop, finishing the last of the flower wreaths—until Wanda had opened the shop and shooed him away to go get Freddie as soon as Robbie got there.

 If it weren’t for the couple sitting next to him on the bleachers, Bucky’s not sure he’d make it through the games. As it is, Bucky thinks the man’s sarcastic comments, said under his breath to his wife, but loud enough for Bucky to hear, in response to the aggressive mom yelling savagery to her child—a scared little boy who obviously is uncomfortable with her actions and words—are one of the only positive things to come out of today so far, especially after Freddie’s team lost the first game.

And, judging on how this game is going, it’s not going to be much better.

It’s the bottom of the fifth, Bucky’s ass long since gone numb on the old wooden beamed bleachers, his wallet significantly lighter after lunch from the concessions, and pocket filled with too much extra bubble gum. Bucky’s seen the couple around at games before—he knows that their kid is on Freddie’s team—but hasn’t met them before today. After laughing at way too many of the man’s sarcastic jokes, they finally introduce themselves. Bucky learns their names are Howard and Maria, and that their son, Tony, is a year older than Freddie.

Tony’s got the makings of being a slugger one day, but he doesn’t always hit the ball. Howard whispered to Bucky earlier, when Maria left to get a cup of coffee, that he’s worried Tony’s being too hard on himself about his hitting. Bucky confessed that Freddie was the same way with his throwing, and they traded ideas on how to help the other.

It’s nice, Bucky thinks, to finally—after he and Freddie’s issues the last couple weeks—start to feel like a parent, to sit with other parents who _get_ his struggle—at least partly—and shoot the shit for a bit.

Of course, all of that goes up in smoke after the game ends in another disastrous loss—much to the chagrin of the aggressively loud mother—when a shoving match ensues between none other than Freddie and Tony.

Bucky rushes from the bleachers to the break in the fence, running onto the side of the diamond where the shoving’s turned into an all-out, both-kids-on-the-ground, rolling-around-in-the-dirt scuffle. It’s only after he yells Freddie’s name and sees his coach, Thor, bodily pull the kids apart, that he realizes Howard and Maria are right behind him.

Bucky takes a moment to look both kids over—no blood, thank god—before he sees the tears on Freddie’s cheeks. He strides over as quick as he can, bending down to take the young boy into his arms. “Hey, hey, Kiddo, you’re okay.” Bucky makes a shushing sound when Freddie hiccups a bit and squats down to look him in the eye, wiping the tears away as subtly as he can. He knows how much Freddie hates it when he cries, and especially how much he hates people seeing him cry. “What happened, Buddy?”

Freddie bites his trembling lip. “He—he s-said I bat like a girl and that—r-real boys know how to hit.” Freddie whispers the words and they immediately ignite a rage inside of Bucky. He pulls Freddie into his arms once again, turning to look over his shoulder at Freddie’s coach, who stands right behind him and no doubt heard everything.

At the start of the season, Bucky had been wary to tell Thor Odinson about Freddie, or to even let Freddie onto Thor’s team. On the surface, he looked every bit the kind of arrogant jock who would undoubtedly take issue with Freddie being on his team, but Thor surprised Bucky when he chose instead to take Freddie under his wing just like the rest of the kids. It had meant a lot at the time, and so far this season, Thor hadn’t let anyone talk bad about their teammates.

Bucky sees Thor’s face fall as he looks between Freddie and Tony, before he sighs deeply. “Tony, Freddie, line up!”

Freddie sniffles one more time against Bucky’s shoulder and then pulls away to walk, downcast, over to stand in front of his coach. From the wide-eyed look Tony has as he walks away from his very glarey parents, Bucky can only imagine what they’ve said to him.

Thor waits until both of them stand in front of him before crouching down until he’s eye level with them. “Do you two remember what I told you all the first day of practice? About how a team can only be a team if everyone treats each other nicely and works hard? You were not a team today.” If possible, Freddie lowers his head further and Tony’s eyes get wider.

“Tony,” Thor reaches up and puts one of his large hands on the kid’s shoulder, “Why was Freddie upset at what you said?”

“I—I dunno, Coach.”

“Tony!” Maria hisses from where she and Howard stand a few feet away.

“I mean, uh, I said a mean thing.”

Thor nods thoughtfully, taking his hand off. “And why did you say a mean thing to him?”

Bucky’s unprepared when Tony’s eyes suddenly fill with tears. “‘Cause we lost, Coach!” he cries. “We lost, _twice_ , an’ it was ‘cause of me, and then Freddie said good game and I got so mad and—” he sniffles and turns to look at Freddie, who suddenly looks up at his teammate, “—and ‘m sorry, Freddie. I didn’t mean it. I’m the one who bats like a girl.” The boy sniffles and lifts the collar of his shirt to wipe his nose.

Bucky’s equally unprepared when Freddie reaches out and hugs Tony. “You’re the best batter I know, Tony,” he tells the other boy before pulling away. “And we didn’t lose ‘cause of you. We lost ‘cause Rhodey wasn’t here so we didn’t have the whole team to work together, right Coach?”

Thor smiles at the boys, and Freddie smiles back. “Besides,” Freddie says, playfully hitting Tony on the shoulder. “My Uncle Bucky says that you should never insult someone by saying they do something like a girl because moms are girls and moms are awesome, so girls are awesome, too.”

Tony smiles sheepishly and toes at the dirt. “My mom _is_ pretty awesome…you’re right. I’m sorry I was mean to you, Freddie.”

“I’m sorry I pushed you, Tony.”

The two kids hug again and then start laughing when Thor tells them they have cleanup duty. “Last one to the dug-out is a rotten egg!” Tony yells before he sprints off, Freddie hot on his heels.

Howard and Maria wander over to Bucky, the three of them still looking at the two kids as they pick up bats and helmets as if nothing happened.

“Maybe we should set up a playdate,” Howard whispers under his breath, and Bucky can’t help but laugh.

-

-

Bucky always manages to forget how busy June can be. Or, maybe it’s that Bucky willfully chooses to block the memories of how ridiculously busy June is. As prime wedding season, the month is a blur of bridezillas and bad dreams, and it hasn’t even _started_ yet. Bucky’s arranged so many bouquets of flowers and tied enough twine and ribbon and burlap that the tips of his fingers feel chapped. Bucky’s stayed late every day so far this week, and most of last week, thanking whatever god there is for the school’s extended latchkey program, but it ends after Friday. And Bucky doesn’t know what he’s going to do about someone to watch Freddie until he starts summer school to make up for the work he missed during the year.

He sighs, pulling into his driveway with Freddie in tow, the kid reading a sports book he picked up from a book fair last month. Bucky smiles a little at the mirror, at the look on Freddie’s face as he takes in new facts and statistics. “You gotta put the book down for a bit, Kiddo.”

Freddie looks up and grumbles something that faintly sounds like “stupid Uncle Bucky” but then he dog-ears the page and closes the book as he reaches for the truck door. Bucky let’s his comment go, too tired to scold him, and not even knowing why he should scold him anyway as they get out of the vehicle.

He blames it on the fact that he’s too tired to be fully aware of his surroundings when he finally catches Sarah from the corner of his eye, and by then it’s too late. Bucky swears under his breath as she walks from her front porch toward his driveway. “James! James, may I steal you for a moment?”

It’s not necessarily that Bucky’s been avoiding Sarah since he met Steven, it’s just that Bucky doesn’t know what his place is around her anymore. And Steven…well, Bucky’s not really sure what the other man thinks of him—and it bothers him, and Bucky doesn’t know _why_ it bothers him to be unsure of what Steven thinks of him—but it does. So, while Bucky hasn’t _really_ been avoiding Sarah, he’s certainly not been making as big of an effort to pop over as much, especially not after working overtime every day.

“Hey, Freddie,” Bucky calls to the boy, “why don’t you go on inside. You can even read more of your book before I make you wash up for dinner.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bucky!” Freddie yells, racing inside.

Bucky sighs again, bracing himself as he walks to meet Sarah halfway. “Hello, Mrs. Rogers. What can I do ya for?”

Sarah stops, setting both hands on her hips as she narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t you ‘Mrs. Rogers’ me, young man. Just where have you been? Don’t you know it’s impolite to leave an old woman to drink her morning tea all alone?”

Guilt weighs in the pit of Bucky’s stomach and he takes a step toward her. “Aww, Sarah, you’re forever young and you know it. Besides, you have your son to drink tea with now.”

The corner of Sarah’s mouth twitches. “James, that boy wouldn’t know a chai from an oolong. Besides, Steven’s been gone all week. Which you’d know if you stopped on by at all.” Sarah sighs before Bucky can say anything and drops her hands from her hips, taking a step toward him to reach out and give his shoulder a squeeze. Her kind eyes don’t hold a hint of the anger that Bucky knows they probably should. “I’m just worried about you, Sweetie. You look like you’ve been running yourself into the grave—and don’t you try to ‘It’s wedding season’ me, because I know darn well that you have many capable hands at that shop to help you, but you’re too stubborn to ask for it.”

Bucky opens his mouth and closes it a couple times, and then he sighs and reaches up to rub at his tired eyes. “You’re right, you’re right.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, Sarah.”

She smiles a little at him. “That’s quite alright, but if you really want to make it up to me, you’ll let me start watching Freddie again for you, especially with the school year over. I miss that boy, and _you_ need a break, Sugar! All work and no play makes James a dull boy. And, I don’t know how to tell you this, Dear, but dull boys never get the _fun_ boys.” She finishes the last bit in a whisper and ends with a wink.

Bucky laughs until his stomach hurts.

-

-

It’s late in the day on Tuesday when Bucky finally gets home. He’s drained wholly; the day at the flower shop had been one of utter hell; the perfect ending to the shittiest shift.

It’s one thing to prepare for funerals—simply making flower arrangement after flower arrangement—but it’s another to be the one delivering them to the church. Normally, he pawns that job off on Scott, but his daughter’s sick with the flu and he’s home taking care of her. Bucky couldn’t spare any of the other workers today, so he’d delivered them himself.

It’s something entirely different to walk in, to set the flowers down, weaving in and out of grieving loved ones who simply wait in heartache to say goodbye. It’s something entirely different when it’s a young mother who has died, leaving her children behind. Bucky couldn’t help but glance at the woman in the casket, and he’d seen Becca.

Now, it’s as if her ghost keeps following him around. He can’t stop thinking about her and Gabe, and how he’d held Freddie against his side during their funeral. He’d been devastated—his best friends, gone in the blink of an eye, gone to something so mundane, their life snuffed out—and Bucky had had to be the strong one then, for Freddie. He’d had to be the rock, holding them together—the two of them, all that’s left. His family.

The sun just starts to set by the time he pulls his vehicle into the driveway. He sits there for another moment, taking in the silence surrounding him, using it to focus himself. He needs to hold himself together. He can’t let Freddie see him like this—sad, mourning. All Bucky wants to do is hug Freddie and hold him, and he has no doubts the boy would let him, but then he would ask why, and Bucky wasn’t sure how he could tell Freddie he was sad without making the boy sad, too. He heads over to Sarah’s house, but before he can even make it halfway to her front steps, Freddie comes running out, the screen door banging behind him.

“Uncle Buck, Uncle Buck! You’ll never guess what happened!” The boy practically bounces out of his skin and Bucky has no doubt that Freddie snuck more than a couple cookies from the jar Sarah keeps in her pantry. He smiles at the boy and ruffles his hair as he looks up to see Sarah standing with a smile in the doorframe. He waves at her in thanks, knowing that he’ll have to do something extra nice for her for watching Freddie for him more often than she probably anticipated when she’d originally offered. Sarah always says it’s fine, and that she likes spending time with him, but Bucky knows just what a handful the boy can be.

“Why don’t we go inside, and then you can tell me, Kiddo.”

He lets out a small chuckle as Freddie tears his way over to their house, rushing up the steps and inside. Bucky’s a little slower to enter and he can tell Freddie’s getting anxious with him when he bends down to take off his boots in the foyer. “Now, what were you gonna tell me?”

Freddie looks up at him with wide brown eyes, his crooked-toothed smile infectious. “I met Stevie Grant today!”

Bucky can tell by Freddie’s near-shout that he’s supposed to know who that is, and he racks his brain trying to think of every possibility. The name sounds faintly familiar, but he still can’t place him. The boy gets impatient with him and sighs histrionically. “Uncle Bucky, he’s only the best center fielder _of all time_!”

And then it all clicks into place. He remembers the name from a couple years ago. He was some hot shot player from a team out west who had only been playing for a few years before an injury sidelined him. It was big news last season when the guy returned post injury and blew his knee out in the fourth game of the season. Gabe and Becca had told Bucky all about Freddie’s obsession, and Bucky had read a handful of articles and interviews about him when he first came back, because Freddie had been so excited when the man started to play again. Freddie had told Bucky all about the collector’s cards he had for the guy. The boy had been devastated for a good month after the player hurt himself again.

Bucky’s suddenly aware that Freddie’s been talking this whole time and he tunes back in. “…and he signed my favorite card of him, and he said I have a good arm—oh, and, and, he said—he said we should play catch together sometime! Uncle Buck, he was so _cool_!”

Bucky nods along with the conversation. “So, he was at your practice?” Bucky has no doubt that Thor is the kind of guy who would have major league friends.

But Freddie just rolls his eyes at him. “No, silly, he was at Mrs. Sarah’s, I told you.”

Bucky frowns, feeling like he lost track of the conversation. “Wait, why was he at Mrs. Sarah’s?”

Freddie makes a sound that resembles a whine. “Uncle Bucky, weren’t you listening? He’s Mrs. Sarah’s son.” Freddie wrinkles his nose and Bucky just blinks dumbly at the boy. “And Mrs. Sarah got all sappy when she saw us playing ball in the backyard. But I gave her a hug and told her not to be sad and she said it made her all better and made me hot cocoa. It was really good.” Freddie looks up at him with his best puppy dog eyes. “Uncle Bucky, can I have more cocoa.”

Bucky blinks at him again, trying to take in all the information just hurdled at him. Sarah’s son is a baseball player? Steven?— The same shy, timid Steven who came into his shop to get help buying flowers is _Stevie Grant_? The charismatic and progressive player who was one of the biggest unapologetic supporters of LGBTQ rights in the MLB? That Stevie Grant?

“Uncle Bucky!” Freddie practically whines, breaking him from his thoughts to look at the boy.

Bucky clears his throat and tries to clear the thoughts from his head along with it. “Uh, maybe after dinner. And after reading hour. Definitely after reading hour.”

Freddie groans and walks away. Bucky’s in a fog as he heads into the kitchen, opening the cupboards until he finds a box of noodles to make for dinner. He makes a mental note to go grocery shopping after Freddie’s game tomorrow and goes through the motions to make the meal. He gets lost in his thoughts again, and then his eyes catch through the window on the light on in Sarah’s empty kitchen.

Stevie Grant. Who would’ve thought. He makes another mental note to ask Sarah about the missing detail she never told him before. Bucky supposes it makes sense now why Steven always locks Sarah’s doors. Maybe he’s not just plain paranoid after all. Fame is reason enough to be cautious. Why hide that your son is famous, though? He thinks, if it were his mother, she would’ve shouted it from the rooftops. The thought makes him smile, and with that, he calls Freddie to set the table for supper.

-

-

The start of summer school approaches quicker than Bucky anticipates. Before he knows it, it’s just a few days before he starts. Freddie only needs to make up two classes from missing so much school last fall after the accident and moving across the country. Bucky had met with Principal Coulson before the end of the school year and found out that, although Freddie was a good student, he simply didn’t know all the material needed to progress, and in order to not be held back, this was his only option. Bucky had tried reassuring Freddie that it didn’t make him not smart, just because he was in summer school, and that the six weeks would fly by and he’d have the whole rest of the summer to play, but Freddie had cried that whole night.

Bucky’s been trying not to remind Freddie too much of it, and to let him have this little vacation, but Bucky finally set up some appointments for the boy he’d been putting off for the last couple months. He’d scheduled a dentist appointment for him, an eye exam, and now a doctor’s appointment. That one has been the hardest for Bucky—trying to find a doctor in the area equipped to handle Freddie’s situation. Becca and Gabe used to rave about the doctor Freddie went to before, but there’s no feasible way for Bucky to make that work any longer. The reality is that Freddie lives here now, and Bucky needs a doctor for him in this area. Luckily, Freddie’s doctor was aware of the circumstances and had no problem giving him a referral to a good doctor in the city, and the appointment is finally this afternoon.

Bucky decided to take a half day, to relieve Sarah a bit early from watching Freddie. He pulls into the driveway and gets out of his vehicle. Immediately, he hears Freddie’s laughter coming from behind the house. It’s a beautiful June day; the sun shines brightly, sky blue and cloudless, and Bucky can’t help but smile at Freddie’s exuberant giggles. He makes his way by the side of the house, heading to the backyard, but he stops when he rounds the corner.

Freddie throws the baseball, hard and fast like a pitch. Bucky only has a moment to appreciate how much his arm has improved since the start of the season before his eyes land on Steven—who catches the ball like it’s nothing, like the glove is an extension of his hand—and then he smiles, nodding at Freddie, telling him, “Good job” in a way that actually sounds sincere, and like he enjoys playing baseball with a ten-year-old kid. Steven tosses the ball back to Freddie and Bucky can’t help but notice the way the man’s tight athletic shirt shifts in the sunlight. He must make some small move, because the next thing he knows, Steven looks over at him, and the radiant smile he had for Freddie falls to something more guarded as he gives Bucky a small wave.

It’s only then that Freddie notices Bucky, and he drops his glove and the ball, running over to him, yelling, “Uncle Buck, Uncle Buck! You’ll never guess what Mr. Stevie taught me!” Freddie comes up to Bucky and grabs his arm, practically dragging Bucky over to where they play catch. “He showed me how to do a changeup! It’s so cool, Uncle Bucky, watch.” Bucky stands there, eyes softening as he watches Freddie, what’s probably a dopey smile on his face as Freddie picks up his glove and the ball, as he turns his body and readies his grip. Bucky doesn’t know what exactly a changeup is supposed to look like, but from the grin Freddie shoots him after he releases the ball, Bucky starts clapping anyway.

“That’s awesome, Bud! I’m so proud of you.” Bucky steps closer and pulls Freddie into a hug, bending down to place a kiss on his head. “And you’ll get plenty of time to practice…after you get home from your doctor’s appointment.”

Freddie pulls back with a frown. “Aww, do I have to, Uncle Buck?”

Bucky pretends to think about it and then nods sagely. “I’m afraid so, Buddy. Now say thank you to Mr. Steven and then go get changed, okay? If you hurry, you might have time to call Tony and tell him all about what you learned before we leave…”

Freddie’s eyes go wide. “He’s gonna be so jealous,” he whispers, before yelling, “Thanks, Mr. Stevie!” and runs inside the house. Bucky laughs a little to himself as he bends down to pick up Freddie’s forgotten glove. He dusts it off, seeing Steven approach from the corner of his eye.

“He’s a good kid,” Steven says when Bucky turns to look at him. He holds his own glove kind of awkwardly in front of him. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve been helping him practice. I mean, my ma told me you wouldn’t have a problem with it, but…is it okay?” Bucky watches the man in front of him revert from baseball star to the guy he met in his flower shop. He looks a little nervous, like he’s afraid Bucky is going to tell him off for helping Freddie.

Bucky smiles and hopes it’s disarming. “Nah, man. It’s cool. I, uh, I actually really appreciate you taking the time to help him. I mean, you don’t have to. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do. But, it’s really nice of you.”

“No problem,” Steven smiles a little. Bucky smiles back and then thinks about how dumb he probably looks, still smiling and staring back at the man, and makes to go inside. He takes a step, but then Steven speaks again. “I didn’t know it was you, you know. In the flower shop.” Steven lifts his free arm and points his thumb over his shoulder in a vague gesture. “I saw the card for the florist on the fridge and I remembered all the times my ma talked about her next-door neighbor who owned it. But she always said his name was James?—But you introduced yourself as Bucky, and Freddie calls you Bucky.” The other man clears his throat. “So, um, I guess what I’m asking is what can I call you?”

Bucky feels his mouth drop open a little in surprise, because that’s not the direction he thought this conversation was going to go. “Oh, uh. Bucky. Bucky is fine.” Steven looks away, nodding to himself. Bucky clears his own throat. “So, what about you? Is it Steven or Stevie?”

Steven looks up at Bucky like he didn’t expect Bucky to keep talking to him. He shifts the glove from one hand to another. “It’s Steve, actually. My ma’s the only one who still calls me Steven.”

“Hmm.” Is Bucky’s only response. “Okay, then why Stevie Grant? Why not Rogers?”

“Grant is my middle name.” Steven—no, _Steve_ —smiles a little, “and it was my ma’s idea, if you can believe that.” Steve chuckles a bit to himself.

Bucky grins, “I can, actually. Buchanan is my middle name. That’s why people call me Bucky.”

“Not my mom,” Steve points out with a smile, “She calls you James.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s the only one left who still calls me that, too.” Bucky hears a door slam somewhere inside the house and looks to it, as if he can see through the walls the mischief Freddie’s up to. “Well, it was nice to officially meet you, Steve. Now I gotta see a kid about a doctor’s appointment.” He looks back to the man one last time. “Wish me luck?”

A slow smile spreads across Steve’s face until his dimples flash. “Good luck, Bucky. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

Bucky steels himself and goes inside to find Freddie.

-

-

When Becca and Gabe first sat Bucky down to tell him their daughter was trans, Bucky took one look at little Winnifred (“He wants to be called Freddie,” Gabe tells him), obstinate eyes and chin raised in defiance, and knew that child was a kindred spirit. He was different, too—and while Bucky knew the road for him, for all of them, would be difficult, they would all go at it together. He’d be there for Becca and Gabe and Freddie just like Becca and Gabe supported Bucky when he came out. Bucky, of course, went online and did as much research as he possibly could. He learned the importance of trans children being accepted and called the correct pronouns they decided worked for them. He learned about hormone blockers and T, read online articles and zines written by people who knew they were trans when they were kids. Bucky did his best to be there for his nephew, to be educated about what exactly Freddie was going through, and to love and encourage him when things got rough.

And things did, of course, get rough.

Gabe told Bucky all about the bullying Freddie got at his old school as soon as Freddie cut his hair and stopped wearing ‘girly’ clothes. Becca cried on his shoulder at Thanksgiving that year, after everyone else went to sleep, about how much it hurt her to see how badly the world treated Freddie when all he wanted to do was be who he is. They knew, all of them, that the road would be hard, but that Freddie was worth it, and he’d grow up into the man he was meant to be.

There had been so much progress, even with all the moving around from army base to army base that Freddie had been subjected to due to Gabe’s job. Baseball was a godsend to Becca and Gabe, Bucky knew, just as it was a godsend to him after they died, the only thing that really brought Freddie out of his grief. Even after all of that, after losing so much and moving so far away to start a new life. Bucky was wowed by the life inside of the boy, by the strength that so rarely crumbled under the pressure.

Which is why the doctor’s appointment is such a terrible blow.

It wasn’t that the doctor said no, exactly—just not right now. She assured Freddie that she was going to do everything she could for him, but there were steps that had to be followed. The next step would be hormone blockers, in a year or so, “until you’re older, to give you time to make sure this is what you want to do.”

Bucky wanted to scream at her. Of course this was what Freddie wanted to do. This was who he _is_ , and nothing was going to change that. But her words provoked something in the boy, and he’d become despondent and quiet through the rest of the appointment and the ride home after. Not even talking about Stevie Grant seemed to perk the kid up.

Bucky wished—with a fervor he often had—that he could be good with words like Becca and Gabe. They always somehow knew what to say to Freddie to make it better. Maybe it was a parent thing, or a them thing, but Bucky didn’t seem to have the same knack.

It’s been almost a day since then, and Freddie’s still in his room. He didn’t eat much at dinner and went to sleep early last night, and Bucky only saw him once today, when he went upstairs just to make sure Freddie was still there. Bucky wished he had the words to make Freddie feel better, but he was always better with being silent, but being there, until those he cared about came to him.

Bucky knows, though, that Freddie is too young to deal with all of this by himself. Toward the end of the day, he gets an idea, and goes to work in the kitchen making Becca’s brownie recipe—brownies with buttercream ripples and fudge—Freddie’s favorite.

He bakes the brownies, then lets them cool a bit before finishing the frosting and melting the fudge to pour over it. It settles and cools for a few minutes, and then Bucky plates up a couple pieces and grabs two forks, carrying the brownies and utensils up the stairs to Freddie’s room.

“Hey, little man!” Bucky tries for perky, knocking on the doorframe as he enters the room, holding out the plate in front of him. “Look what I have for you.”

Freddie, sitting on his bed with a sports almanac in his lap, glances up at Bucky, but goes back to reading, pulling his knees up to his chest to make himself smaller. “‘M not hungry.”

Bucky tries not to let his face fall, “C’mon, Bud. You gotta eat something. Here,” Bucky walks over to his bed and sits next to Freddie, holding the plate with the still-warm brownies between them with one hand and extending a fork to him with his other hand.

With a sigh, Freddie puts down the book and takes the fork. Only after the boy eats a bite does Bucky start on his own piece. They eat together in silence, until the brownies are mostly gone.

“Oh, by the way,” Bucky turns to Freddie, “I made you an appointment with the barber tomorrow before your game.” He reaches out with a grin and ruffles the boy’s hair. “Let’s get that mop finally taken care of, huh?”

Bucky knows he’s been a little over-due with getting Freddie a haircut—he told himself weeks ago that he would make the appointment—but, normally, as long as he gets a haircut before it becomes too unkempt, Freddie is okay with going a little longer between cuts. Which is why it comes to such a shock to Bucky when Freddie starts to cry.

Bucky sets the plate down on the nightstand as quick as he can and wraps his arms around the boy. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, Kiddo.” Freddie just cries harder, almost sounding hysterical, and Bucky tries his best to soothe him with shushing noises and rubbing the boy’s back. “I’m sorry, Buddy. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Freddie shakes his head, hiccups in air, and when he tries to speak, his words are stuttered. “It’s n-not f-fair, Uncle Bucky. I just w-want to be like—like a-all the other kids.”

Bucky grimaces and holds the boy tighter when his crying starts to fizzle out and he simply clings to Bucky like he’s the only lifeline left in the world. “I know, Freddie.” He speaks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his nephew’s head. “I know. But it’ll be okay, alright?” He jostles Freddie a little until the boy looks at him. “I promise, Freddie. It’s all gonna be okay.”

“Because we have each other?” Freddie mumbles the question, all big brown eyes looking up at Bucky, and it warms the cold places inside of him.

“That’s right.” He presses his forehead to Freddie’s. “And we will _always_ have each other.”

-

-

When Bucky takes Freddie to the baseball field for his game the next day, the boy’s hair freshly cut in some kind of trendy fade the local barber talked Bucky into, with all his edges cleaned up, Freddie can’t seem to wipe the smile off his face. He had danced along to the radio in the car, singing—badly, but Bucky would never tell him that—to all the songs on the oldies station like he could dance right on out of his skin. He practically sprints away from the car when Bucky parks, only to rush back because he forgot his mitt. Freddie trips near the dugout on his untied shoe and Bucky shakes his head fondly as he walks over to the diamond, finding Howard and Maria already on the bleachers and taking a seat next to them.

“Someone looks excited today.” Maria remarks with a smile and a tilt of her head in the direction of where Freddie plays what Bucky suspects is a game of tag with Tony and their friend Rhodey.

Bucky lets out a short laugh and shrugs. “It’s haircut day. Freddie really likes haircut day.”

Howard snorts. “Lucky. Tony still won’t let anyone come near his head with scissors without crying. Every time we go to Maria’s salon, they always have to break out the suckers reserved for toddlers just to calm him down enough to actually cut his hair.”

Bucky laughs at that, then belatedly raises a hand to muffle his laughter, not wanting to offend the couple, but Maria surprises him by joining in and laughing, too. “The poor kid. We’re going to give him a complex.”

Howard shrugs and then faces Bucky, leaning toward him conspiratorially. “Honestly, it’s probably not the first one and I doubt it’ll be the last. Oh!” Howard leans back and claps his hands together. “So, speaking of Tony,” Howard starts, “he wants to have a pool party and have some of his friends over. We kind of let him throw one every summer—a bunch of his friends and their parents and a ton of food. Anyway, since Tony can’t stop talking about how ‘cool’ Freddie is, and the kids are getting along like a house on fire—I wanted to invite the two of you over. It’s a week from Saturday.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “That soon?”

Howard looks a little sheepish and Maria gives her husband a pointed look. “Someone,” she says, narrowing her eyes at Howard, “was supposed to have Tony get your number from Freddie so we could call you, but he kept forgetting.”

Howard opens and closes his mouth a couple times. “In my defense, Tony talks _a lot_. You try getting a word in edgewise when the kid is on a tangent.”

Bucky just laughs a little. “If you want, I can give you two my number, that way you won’t have to go through Tony.” Maria chuckles and hands Bucky her phone, open to the new contact screen. “I’ll have to talk to Freddie about the party, since he starts summer school on Monday, but I’m sure he’d love to go.”

“Fantastic!” Howard grins, taking the phone back from Bucky when he’s done to add the number to his own phone. Bucky feels his phone buzz a couple times in his pocket and gets it out to save Howard and Maria’s contact information. Bucky doesn’t know exactly how Freddie would do at a pool party. They’ve gone up to the lake with Sam once or twice when Freddie used to come out and visit during the summers, but he’s not sure how the boy would feel about going to a swimming party with kids his own age.

The first hit of the game breaks him of his thoughts. It’s a foul ball on the other team, but the next one is a hit, and the kid makes it all the way to second base. The game goes on, at one point getting neck and neck, Bucky and Howard and Maria anxiously sitting on the stands, watching to see what will happen.

In the end, Rhodey hits a homerun and their team wins the game. But to Bucky, Freddie’s cheers from the dugout feels like a victory all on its own.

-

-

After a long overdue morning of working in his and Sarah’s yards, and the hottest shower known to man, Bucky grabs a cucumber he picked earlier from his veggie garden, and a little basket of Aunt Molly’s—Sarah’s favorite—and lets himself into Sarah’s house.

“James Barnes, how dare you!” Bucky stops in the doorway, one hand on the handle and the other holding the vegetables. In front of him is none other than Sarah Rogers, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. Bucky feels like he’s seen her like this too many times lately and knows what’s coming even before she opens her mouth again. “How many times do I have to tell you I can tend my own blasted garden?”

Bucky closes the door and strides over to set the veggies on her counter. “How many times do _I_ have to tell you that it doesn’t matter what you tell me, because I can see with my own eyes that gardening flares up your hip?” Sarah opens her mouth, her eyes narrowing, but Bucky beats her to it, walking over to stand a few feet from her, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes at her. He’s been waiting for this moment for a while now. “But, since we’re on the topic of _telling_ people things, Mrs. Rogers, why don’t we talk about the fact that _you_ never told _me_ your son was in the MLB? Hmm.”

Sarah has the grace to look sheepish and her irritated hands fall from her hips to fidget in front of her. “Oh, that. Freddie told you?”

Bucky snorts, pulling out a chair at her kitchen table and sitting down. “Couldn’t shut up about it.” Sarah comes over to join him at the table. “Then I had a little chat with Steve. Which got me wondering why I never heard it from you. The way you always talked about him, I figured he was in some kind of business or something.” The playfulness drops from his voice and he replaces it with earnestness. “I wouldn’t’ve cared, Sarah. You have to know that.”

Sarah sighs, for a moment looking every bit her age. “Oh, Sugar, of course I know that. It was never that I didn’t _want_ to tell you, it was just that…well, sometimes with folks …you know how it is. Truth is that my Steven was never much to anyone he grew up around…until he started getting famous. Then it seemed like everyone came out of the woodwork to get something from him, or remind him of his mistakes, like he owed something to the people there. Steven never wanted anything to do with that. Wasn’t long after that I decided to move out of the city and he bought this house for me. It was a fresh start for us both, and I got used to not telling people about him.” She gives Bucky a sad smile. “Didn’t really talk about him to anyone until I met you, Dear. And maybe it was selfish of me not to tell you boys, but, well I guess I just wanted him to be a person to you two—my Steven—instead of baseball star Stevie Grant.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, Bucky digesting everything she said and her reasoning for it. All he wants to do is reach over and give her a hug, but Sarah looks like she’ll start crying if he does that, so Bucky just sighs, and says dramatically, “Well, that’s just silly. A person’s a person no matter how small. Didn’t Dr. Seuss teach you anything?”

Sarah laughs at that—loud and vibrant, the lines on her face deepening in a way that makes her look a decade younger. “Did that boy make you watch that blasted movie _again_ this week?”

Bucky grimaces. “Last night after his game. With cookies.”

Sarah shakes her head. “I don’t know how the child doesn’t get sick of watching the same thing over and over again.”

“Well, it could be worse.” At Sarah’s cocked brow, Bucky can’t help but grin. “At least it’s not baseball.”

-

-

Bucky’s just getting back from the greenhouse, having spent most of his morning there after dropping Freddie off for his first day of summer school. He takes a break while he can, since he knows the rest of his week will be filled with getting everything together for the next wedding they have this weekend. It’s as he’s on his way from his truck to the house that he hears someone—Steve, he can recognize his voice instantly—call for him.

Bucky sighs to himself as he turns around. Of course Steve chooses to talk to him while his clothes are dirt-stained from working with the plants all morning. He looks like he crawled through a dirt pit. Bucky plasters a smile on his face, even though all he wants to do is go inside and get some much-needed lunch. “Steve! What can I do for you?”

Steve looks around a little wearily, as if he’s making sure no one can overhear him. Bucky’s not sure why, since Sarah’s vehicle isn’t in the driveway. “Hey, uh, Bucky, I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor?”

Steve sounds hopeful, if a little shifty, and Bucky immediately wonders what the favor could be for. He already knows he will have to say yes, to pay Steve back for all the time he’s spent working with Freddie so far this summer. “Sure,” Bucky shrugs nonchalantly, “what’s up?”

Steve looks around one more time, then bites his lip before he speaks. “Well, I’m sure you know that my ma’s birthday is coming up soon.”

Bucky waits for more, but Steve doesn’t continue. “Yeah, it’s next week, right?”

Steve looks away and grimaces. “Yeah.” He looks back to Bucky and sighs. “Never mind, this was stupid. I’ll let you get on with your day.”

Bucky can feel the confusion written all over his face, and as Steve turns to leave, Bucky reaches out to grab at his elbow. “Steve. C’mon, what’s this about?”

Steve doesn’t turn back to face Bucky right away, but does sigh again—gently, this time. “I don’t know what to get her,” he admits.

Bucky drops the hand from Steve’s arm, and tries to control the smile he feels spreading across his face. “Wait, that’s what this is about? You just want advice?”

The other man looks up to the sky in exasperation before he turns to fully face Bucky once more. “It’s just—you know her so well, and every time I ask what she wants, she just feeds me the usual ‘I have everything I need’ spiel. And after everything I put her through for the last couple years, I want to do something nice for her, y’know. To show her how much she means to me.” Steve’s sincere blue eyes stare into Bucky’s. “So, any ideas?”

Bucky can’t help but grin at the other man, shaking his head at how endearingly pathetic he is at the moment. “Steve, follow me.” Bucky doesn’t wait for Steve’s reply, just makes his way across his lawn to Sarah’s house. He walks up the porch steps and lets himself into the neighboring home, Steve on his heels. They maneuver around the living room until Bucky comes to a stop in front of a corner bureau. On top of it is a small collection of artwork. There’s a couple framed charcoal sketches—one of a younger Sarah, one of a city skyline. Above it, there’s a painting of a national park Sarah told Bucky she took Steve to the summer before he started college. He turns back to Steve, sees him staring intently at the works, before Bucky grabs his arm again, guiding him through the dining area to the kitchen, to where there’s a colorful acrylic painting of carnations overlooking the breakfast nook.

“Look, Steve,” Bucky starts, his words soft. “If you want to show your mom how much she means to you, give her something that she’ll cherish. It doesn’t take a genius to see that she loves your creativity. So, just give her something from the heart. You don’t need to _buy_ her anything.”

Bucky looks back to Steve, watches him appraise his work. Steve turns his head to look at Bucky. “You really think she’d like something I made her?”

Bucky chuckles softly. “Steve, no offense, but you could get Sarah anything money could buy, but nothing would make her happier than something you made just for her.” Steve gives Bucky a look that he can’t decipher, like Steve’s seeing a part of Bucky he’s never noticed before. It’s unnerving, and Bucky clears his throat before he claps Steve on the shoulder. “Hope that helps.” He mumbles before he leaves the room, heading back out the way he came to go home, leaving Steve in the kitchen to contemplate his own work.

-

-

Days off in June are rare for Bucky. Days off in June that coincide with Freddie spending the day at summer school are even rarer. Yet after a few much-needed hours in the garden, Bucky finds the quiet of the house too still, too odd. He checks his watch for the third time in an hour. It’s not quite noon yet, on a Thursday, and he knows that Sarah has at least another hour before she’ll be home from her yoga class. Normally, he would mix up some lunch to take over to her when she gets out, but Bucky knows that Steve’s been doing most of the cooking for them since he moved home.

Speaking of Steve. The last time Bucky saw him was their slightly strange encounter when Bucky’d told him to make something for Sarah’s birthday. He wonders if Steve took his advice, or if the panic set in again after Bucky walked out. He hopes, for Steve’s sake, that it’s the former.

Bucky moves into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. Looking out the window, he notices a red SUV in the driveway. He frowns at the unfamiliar vehicle and wonders if Steve finally broke down and bought a car to use around town instead of taking Sarah’s all the time. It would be a nice change for him, Bucky’s sure. Would make this town and her house feel more like _his_. At least, that’s what it was like for Bucky.

His stomach begins to growl and he looks down at himself, frowning, glancing back out the window. He can’t have lunch with Sarah, but maybe Steve would like some company. He puts the glass in the sink and grabs his keys before heading out. At the last moment, as he crosses over his front lawn, he picks a daisy, twirling it around in his fingers.

Bucky’s been trying to be better about respecting Steve’s space when Sarah’s not there, so he knocks at the front door instead of letting himself in. Better to be safe than sorry. Through the front door, he hears some shuffling inside before the door opens to reveal someone who is definitely _not_ Steve.

A woman, maybe an inch taller than Sarah, stands in the doorway, menacing, her red hair pulled back into a ponytail almost as severe as the expression on her face. Sweat glistens on her forehead in the sunlight. “May I help you.”

It’s not a question, her expression flat. It throws Bucky off kilter. “Uh,” Bucky says, eloquent as ever, “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone would be here. I mean—I knew _someone_ would be here since I came over. I thought that maybe Steve bought a car or something, not that there would be someone—uh, I don’t make a habit of going to peoples’ houses when they aren’t home, or anything—I swear—”

“Bucky, is that you?” He hears Steve’s voice from inside the house and sighs in relief. The woman doesn’t even blink at him.

“Uh, yeah,” he clears his throat, looking back to the woman. “I’m Bucky, hi.”

She eyes him suspiciously for another moment, glancing at the flower in his hands. Bucky blushes, wondering what this looks like. He wasn’t going to _give_ the flower to Steve or anything. He just wanted to keep his hands busy so his mouth wouldn’t get him into trouble.

A lot of good that plan did.

“It’s okay, Nat.” Steve’s voice sounds from inside again. The woman sighs, as if put-upon, and opens the front door the rest of the way for Bucky to enter. In the living room, the furniture is pushed back to allow for a rollaway bed in the center. Steve lies on top of it, on his elbows with a foam roller under his left ankle. Sweat soaks through the collar of his gray tank top.

Bucky realizes, suddenly and horribly, that he’s interrupting Steve’s physical therapy. In all the times he’s seen Steve, the other man has seemed so un-phased by his knee injury that it was easy for Bucky to forget. “Oh, I— I’m sorry,” he motions to Steve, where he’s struggling to swing his leg around so he can get off the medical cot. “I didn’t realize you were busy. I totally should’ve called first. Really sorry to bother you. I’ll get out of your hair.”

Bucky turns around to leave, but he hears the woman swear. “Jesus, Steve, be _careful_.”

He looks back, hand on the doorknob, to see Steve walking toward him, supported by the woman, who can be none other than his physical therapist. She glares up at Steve but helps him close the distance between himself and Bucky nonetheless. “No, it’s okay, Bucky. We were just finishing up.” The woman—Nat?—opens her mouth like she might argue that point, but Steve shoots her a look that Bucky can’t quite decipher. “What’s up?”

The force of Steve’s blue eyes and bright smile is almost too much for Bucky. He hasn’t been subjected to that particular combination since the day they met, when Steve was still a nameless stranger who wandered in to Bucky’s flower shop. Bucky steps back into the room. The woman takes that as her cue to help Steve onto the nearby sofa. Bucky sits in the armchair. “Well, Freddie’s at school, and I know Sar—your mom—is out for a bit longer at her class.” The woman walks away, going into the kitchen. “Anyway, I was bored and wondered if you wanted to maybe grab a bite to eat with me.” The woman comes back with a glass of water that Steve downs in two gulps. She eyes him again. “As a thanks, y’know, for helping Freddie with his baseball practice.”

The woman’s head whips around to look at Steve. “With _what_?”

“Natasha,” Steve has the grace to look slightly guilty, “it’s not what it sounds like. I was just helping him with his throws.” Steve raises his hands in a surrender gesture. “I didn’t even run, I promise.”

“You better not have, Rogers, or I’ll break your other knee my damn self.”

Bucky sits, watching the interaction slightly terrified and embarrassed for having opened his big mouth _again_ , but Steve surprises him by laughing and patting her on the shoulder in a way completely void of condescension, like he knows she’s good for her word. “You’re the big sister I always wanted.”

She stares at him, unmoved. “I hate you.” She gets up, the blank look gone from her face the next moment. “Same time next week?”

Steve nods. “Thanks, Nat.”

Bucky makes to stand. “Do you need any help?”

Natasha dismisses him with a glance. They sit in relative silence as Natasha packs up the PT equipment. She’s surprisingly fast, efficient in packing everything up into one large bag. She leaves the house and the front door clicks behind her.

Steve clears his throat. “So, lunch? Uh, were you planning on going out somewhere? Because, to be honest, Natasha worked me over pretty good today…”

Looking at him, Bucky sees the tightness around his eyes, the slight tremor in his calf muscle. “I mean, I was thinking about that, but if you’re too tired, I don’t mind making something.”

Steve shakes his head. “It’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“Really, it’s no problem.” Bucky stands up, fidgeting once again with the flower. “I have plenty of stuff at home and I like to cook. I can,” he looks down at his watch, checking the time as he steps around toward the door, “be back here in 20 minutes?”

From where he sits on the couch, Steve watches him, eyes unreadable once again, but what looks like relief flashes across his face. “Can you make it a half hour? I’d like to shower so I reek like Biofreeze instead of B.O.”

Bucky lets out a small laugh. “Sure thing.”

At home, Bucky makes quick work, throwing some chicken on the grill in his backyard as he makes a salad. He also throws in a Bundt cake for good measure, if for no other reason than he knows Sarah loves them and can have the leftovers.

Thirty minutes later, he walks back to the house, arms loaded. The back door had been opened for him. Steve’s nowhere to be seen, so Bucky sets the table, opting for the paper plates Sarah hates but keeps around for when he and Freddie come over. It’s not long before Steve comes into the kitchen. Tossing the salad, Bucky motions for Steve to sit. “It’s not much,” he tells him, setting the salad bowl back onto the table, next to the chicken and some cut fruit.

“No, this is great, Bucky, thanks.” Bucky tries not to smile too much at that.

The two of them make their plates and eat in relative silence. Steve’s on his third helping of salad when Bucky finally speaks. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask. What did you end up doing for Sarah’s birthday?”

Steve looks up at Bucky, like a deer in headlights. “Uh…”

“You don’t have to tell me, obviously.” Bucky stabs at a piece of cucumber. “I just wondered.”

He hears Steve clear his throat. “Sorry, I just don’t normally…talk about my art. My ma’s really the only one I paint for anymore. But—well, uh, would you like to see it?”

Bucky perks up, setting his fork down on his plate. He smiles across the table at Steve. “Yeah, sure. Absolutely.”

They clear the table first, throwing away their plates and putting the leftovers into the fridge. Bucky leaves the cake out, adding a glaze to set before they head upstairs. Steve takes his time on the stairs, going one step at a time. He shoots Bucky an apologetic look, “I’m sorry. I’m usually fine to do the little things, but Nat’s been pushing me harder the last couple weeks. She seems to think I’m getting close to being done, but I’m not so sure.”

Bucky shakes his head, dismissing Steve’s unnecessary apology. “That’s great news, though!” Bucky smiles at Steve until the other man returns it. “Freddie’ll go ballistic.”

Steve laughs. “So will my mother, but,” Steve stops when he makes it to the landing, “I don’t want to tell her just yet. Not until it’s a sure thing.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Bucky crosses his heart and everything. Shaking his head, Steve begins to walk down the hallway, Bucky on his heels.

 It’d been a long time since Bucky went upstairs in Sarah’s house. He’s pretty sure the one and only time had been when Sarah needed to get something from the attic, and Bucky had volunteered. With the master suite on the main level, like at his house, there was really no reason for her to go upstairs at all. The upstairs looks almost unrecognizable now. Instead of the dusty, disused spare space, the two bedrooms looked clean and lived in, homey. Steve takes him to the second bedroom, converted into what looks like a cross between an art studio, a storage room for boxes and boxes of Steve’s baseball equipment and trophies, and a workout room.

Steve walks further into the room. An easel stands near the window, a plastic tarp laid out underneath. Coming to a stop next to it, the back of the canvas to Bucky, Steve stares down at it. “I decided to take your advice. What do you think?”

Steve steps away so that Bucky can come around to see the painting in the sunlight streaming in through the window. On the canvas, in warm watercolors, is a set of three calla lilies, stems intertwined, in a delicate sunshine yellow, the background warm and inviting, like a summer sunset. It’s gorgeous. The way Steve managed to capture everything down to the texture of the blooms, the curling of the edges. It’s a stunning display of shadow and technique.

“Wow,” is all Bucky can bring himself to say. He starts to reach out, to touch like he would a real flower, but stops himself before his fingertips meet canvas. “Steve. This is amazing.” Bucky hears the wonder in his own voice but doesn’t let himself be self-conscious about it. He looks up at Steve, the other man watching him intently. “It’s beautiful.”

Steve blushes, the color high on his cheeks. He opens his mouth to say something, but the sound of a door opening and closing makes them both stop. “That’s probably my mom.”

Bucky nods, following Steve back out of the room and down the stairs. Unsurprisingly, Sarah’s already in the kitchen when they make their way there, a slice of the cake in front of her as she sits at the table. She looks up, surprise showing on her face for a moment as she sees the two of them together. “Darlings!” Her smile lights the room and Bucky can’t help but return it. “Sugar, you know I love you, but,” she points her fork menacingly at Bucky, “if you keep bringing me sweets, you’re going to have to start paying for my yoga classes.”

Steve, who helps himself to a slice of cake as well, snorts. Sarah’s eyes flit to her son, narrowing. “Don’t you start, Honey Bunch. I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it, too.”

Sarah goes back to eating her cake and Bucky’s eyes lock with Steve’s, the two of them sharing a secret smile over their mutual love for Sarah’s eccentricities.

-

-

Today’s the day. Bucky’s been smiling since he woke up this morning. Freddie even commented on it when Bucky drove him to school, asking him why he’s being so weird, but Bucky just smiled in response and told him he’d be back to pick him up after school.

Little did Freddie know, when he got home later, their surprise visitor would be here, too.

Bucky returns home, making quick work of setting up the spare bedroom. He opens the window to air out the room and changes the sheets. He’s not expecting it when a beep sounds from outside. He sticks his head out the window, seeing the taxi cab at the curb. Hurriedly, he rushes down the steps, almost tripping in his excitement.

It’s not every day your best friend comes home on leave.

Bucky races through the front door and it bangs loudly in the breeze behind him. There, in his driveway, walking up to the sidewalk, is his best friend in the world. “Sammy!” Bucky shouts, running down to meet him.

The smile that lights Sam’s face makes the last few months without seeing him in person worth it—the few and far between phone calls weren’t nearly enough. He drops his bags to the ground, stepping over them and opening his arms. “Bucky-duck, get your ass over here.” Bucky laughs at the nickname Becca used to call him just to embarrass him. It used to bother him when Sam started calling him that, but now, with Becca gone, it’s a small comfort. The hug lasts a long time, until they start laughing like fools.

“Damn, it’s good to see that ugly mug of yours, Wilson.”

Sam’s gap-toothed smile extends again. “Speak for yourself, Barnes.” Sam reaches out to pull a lock of Bucky’s hair. “Don’t tell me you’re growing this out into a manbun. That’s one thing the world doesn’t need.”

“You’re just jealous, Wilson.” Bucky smooths his hair back into order. “Not everyone pledges their whole life to a buzzcut.”

Sam rolls his eyes, pulling Bucky into another hug. “I can’t believe I missed this abuse.” Sam looks around before frowning. “Where’s the little man?”

“Summer school. But he’s only got a half-day today.” Bucky looks at his watch. “I’ll be picking him up in an hour. You hungry?”

“Fucking starved. They don’t even give you pretzels anymore on planes, can you believe that?”

Bucky stoops to pick up one of Sam’s bags, throwing an arm around his shoulder. He thinks he sees a blind move next door, but the next second, it’s still. Frowning, he wonders if it was just his imagination. He’d really been thinking about Steve too much, especially since seeing his painting—and with Sarah gushing for the past two days straight about the ‘gift’ Steve gave her for her birthday. Bucky knows his hanging basket paled in comparison, but it’s better for everyone that way.

Inside, Bucky takes Sam’s bags up to his room. When he comes back down, Sam’s sprawled out on the couch, shoes off and a glass of the sun tea Bucky made in hand. Bucky sits next to him, resting an arm on the back of the couch to look at him. “I really missed you, Man. How’ve you been? Really.”

Sam takes a sip of his tea before he sets it down on the coffee table. “Honestly? Could be better. I think I needed this.” He motions to the house around them. “To come home, have a little normal after all the excitement overseas.” He grins at Bucky, shifting on the couch. “Speaking of _excitement_. Sarah wrote me a very _interesting_ letter.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at Sam. “Since when does Sarah write you letters?”

Rolling his eyes, Sam reaches for his cup once again. “Since I left for my last tour. Keep up, Barnes. Anyway, she wrote about how happy she was knowing ‘my darlings Steven and James are getting along so very well.’” Sam tries—and fails, miserably, at imitating Sarah’s dulcet voice.

Bucky reaches out and shoves him, heedless of the drink in his hands. “Shut up, it’s not like that.”

“No? You telling me you don’t have the hots for Stevie Grant? Don’t lie to yourself, Bucky.”

Confused now, Bucky stops. “Wait, how do you know her son is Stevie Grant? Did she tell you?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “No, dummy. Freddie emails me.”

“Wait, when did Freddie start emailing you?”

“Last summer when he found out I’m cooler than your white ass.”

“Oh, that’s it, no food for you.” Bucky stands up, mock-affronted, but secretly pleased Freddie’s been reaching out to his best friend. Sam isn’t blood, but he might as well be family. He’d been Gabe’s friend first, the two of them thick as thieves since basic training. Sam had been stationed with Gabe for the first tour, Gabe and Rebecca had just been married, and Sam became a fast friend to them both. No one expected Bucky and Sam to hit it off like they had that first time he’d gone to visit them, but they’d been best friends ever since, even when Gabe got stationed elsewhere, and Sam got promoted and sent to another country.

“No!” Sam interrupts his reverie. “I’m so hungry. That’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Then be nice.” Bucky quips, already pulling out the steaks he’s had marinating all morning. “And set the damn table.” They reminisce over lunch, laughing at each other’s stories until they’re both nearly in tears, and then Bucky has to leave to go pick up Freddie.

The ride home from summer school with Freddie is uneventful as always.

Freddie seems quiet, a little withdrawn, like he has been for the past week. Bucky tries to ask him about his classes, but Freddie avoids the subject. He makes a mental note to revisit that conversation another time but hopes that maybe the surprise visitor will be able to bring back the old Freddie, even just a little.

It’s not until they turn the corner onto their block that Freddie seems to de-stress. As they approach their house, Bucky waits for the moment Freddie realizes Sam’s sitting on their front steps. As it happens, Freddie stays oblivious even after they’ve pulled into the driveway and parks the car. Bucky shakes his head. Kids. Why is it they pay attention to all the things you don’t want them to, but the moment you want them to notice something, they’re blind to it.

Bucky gets out of the car quickly, rounding to Freddie’s side before the sluggish boy can even close the door. He takes his backpack from him. Freddie looks up questioningly. “What’re you doing, Uncle Buck?”

Bucky shrugs, “I think you got a delivery, Kiddo. Why don’t you go check it out?”

Bucky had pulled up further in the driveway than he normally does, so when Freddie looks toward the front of the house, the corner blocks his view. He looks between there and Bucky once more, before a smile spreads across his face and he runs toward the front porch. Bucky follows quickly, rounding the corner just in time to hear Freddie shout, “Uncle Sam! Uncle Sam!” and Sam respond in kind.

Sam squats in front of Freddie, giving him a bear hug with sound effects and everything. Freddie’s giggles fill the air when Sam lets himself fall back, taking Freddie with him to roll in the grassy lawn, yelling with Freddie about his ‘sweet fade’. It’s a picture that warms Bucky’s heart. Sam’s bond with Freddie had always been something special—not necessarily better than Bucky’s, but different—and Bucky had always respected their closeness. Now, with Sam mock-wrestling in the grass with Freddie, their laughter floating on the wind, Freddie sees the glimpse of the boy who kept disappearing on him lately, and determination fills him. He’s going to get that kid back.

-

-

The day of Tony’s pool party sneaks up on Bucky. He gets lost in the countless events his shop provides arrangements for. He feels caked in soil, from his feet to his fingernails, on a damn near daily basis. Freddie spends a lot of time with Sam—and Steve—while Bucky’s away at the shop. So, when Freddie wakes up extra early on a Friday morning—before Bucky leaves for work, and before Freddie needs to be at summer school—to remind him that he has to be to Tony’s by five, it’s a shock.

Bucky takes in Freddie’s quiet anxiety on the way to Tony’s house, the way his hands keep fidgeting together as he pulls at the Under Armour t-shirt he’s paired with his swim trunks. At a stop sign, Bucky reaches over to ruffle his nephew’s hair. “It’ll be fine, Kiddo.”

Freddie looks over at him when he starts to drive again. “But what if I’m the only boy there with a shirt on? I don’t wanna be different than them, Uncle Bucky.”

Bucky frowns. “Tons of people wear shirts swimming. Including boys and girls, and everyone in between.”

Freddie sighs, crossing his arms protectively and looking out the window.

They pull into the Stark’s driveway, vehicles parked on either side, and Bucky parks the truck. The two of them make their way around to the back of the house, children’s laughter guiding the way. Bucky takes the towel rolled up under Freddie’s arm from him, as well as the sunscreen Bucky brought just as a backup. Freddie stops when they make it to the back patio, looking up at Bucky, uncertainty overwhelming his expression. Bucky spots something across the pool that makes him smile. He crouches down toward Freddie.

“Hey, Bud, c’mere,” Bucky puts an arm around Freddie’s shoulders, moving him slightly so that he can extend his other arm. He points to the boy on the side, the one wearing a rash guard. The shirt looks almost exactly like Freddie’s shirt. He also sees some girls, one of who also wears a t-shirt. “See,” he whispers, making sure none of the other parents or children around can hear him, “You’re not the only one in a shirt.”

Freddie follows the line of his arm, eyes widening when he sees the boy across the pool. He looks over at Bucky, a smile lighting his face. Wrapping his arms around Bucky enthusiastically, he loudly whispers back, “Thanks, Uncle Bucky,” before he takes off to where Maria’s slathering Tony with sunscreen much to the chagrin of her son, who huffs the whole time.

Bucky laughs to himself, catching Maria’s eye. She smiles at him and gestures to the backdoors. Bucky lets himself in through the French doors, into the expansive kitchen with granite countertops and an island big enough to fit his entire kitchen on top of.

“Bucky!” He turns to see Howard, walking over to him from the dining room, arms open. He gives Bucky an over-exaggerated hug and Bucky laughs. “I’m glad you could make it!”

He smiles at the other man. “Thanks for having us. Maria on sunscreen duty?”

Howard laughs, patting him on the back as he leads Bucky into the living room, which seems to be the hangout for the parents. The oversized couch brims with adults, many of whom Bucky’s never seen before, and a small handful he recognizes from Freddie’s games. “Maria’s the only one that can wrangle that child, I swear to God.”

A woman, sitting at an armchair near them, scoffs. “She wouldn’t be if you weren’t such a softy, Stark.”

Bucky shoots the woman a glance, caught between being offended for his new friend, and laughing at the truth of the statement. “Oh, I like you.”

The woman smiles, her white teeth on display. “I’d say any friend of his is a friend of mine, but that’s simply not true.”

“Ouch,” Howard laughs, “you gonna let her talk to us like that, Bucky?”

Bucky looks at the woman once more. She’s stylish, classy, looks like someone he wouldn’t want to mess with. “Oh yeah, Bud. I think she can take us.”

The woman laughs, rich and loud. She stands, offering her hand. “Smart man. I’m Peggy.”

“Bucky.”

Maria makes her way in while they shake, sliding an arm around her husband. “Wow, Peggy’s making friends?”

Peggy takes her hand back only to put both hands on her hips. “Why on earth do I put up with you two?”

Howard shrugs. “We’re your annoying neighbors. Everyone has one.”

Bucky thinks of Sarah Rogers—the complete opposite of an annoying neighbor—and smiles. “You guys are neighbors?”

“Unfortunately,” Peggy drawls, a small smile on her face. She sits back down, holding out her glass to Howard. “Be a dear and get me some more water, would you, Howard?”

Maria crosses over to sit on the arm of the chair, her arm going around Peggy in a quick hug. “Peggy lives across the road with her husband, Daniel. Her niece Sharon comes to visit almost every summer. She’s about a year older than Tony and somehow manages to not only put up with his shit, but actually enjoys hanging out with my son.” She looks up at Bucky, aghast. “Can you imagine.”

Bucky shakes his head, playing along. “I mean, I keep telling Freddie Tony’s a bad idea… Kids. What can ya do?”

Howard returns, handing the glass to Peggy. “Ain’t that the truth. Want anything to drink, Bucky?”

“I’m good, Howard, thanks.”

“Wanna help me plate up snacks for the kids, then?”

Bucky nods, once again looking around at the other people in the room. None of them save Peggy and Maria look all that friendly, mostly talking in cliques among themselves. “Sure.”

In the kitchen, Howard opens the fridge, pulling out platters of precut sandwiches, a fruit and veggie tray, and some sausages and cheeses. “Crackers are in the pantry, do you mind?” Howard motions to the long cupboard on Bucky’s right. Bucky retrieves the crackers and takes an empty platter that Howard offers him, as well as the cheeses and cutter. He starts to put together the cheese and crackers while Howard cuts the sausage.

“So, I heard something interesting the other day from Tony.” Bucky quirks an eyebrow. “He said Freddie lives next door to a superhero.”

Bucky’s sure he looks dumbfounded. “Uh, what do you mean?”

Howard rolls his eyes, setting the knife down. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna mob your neighbor. It’s just kinda cool you know Stevie Grant. That guy’s a total legend. Did he really help Freddie practice?”

Bucky smiles, arranging the Colby jack next to the cheddar. “Yeah, he still does when he can. His mom babysits a lot for me, so Freddie’s usually running around over there if he’s not at home.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Howard unwraps the various trays, positioning them on the island. He retrieves the plastic cutlery and paper plates and napkins from the pantry as well. “Damn. I mean, Peggy and her husband Daniel watch Tony, occasionally, sure, but they aren’t, like, _Stevie Grant_ or anything—”

A man, blond and wearing a sports jacket, chooses that moment to walk in. Bucky assumes it’s another kid’s parent. He stops in the doorway, an empty beer can in his hand. “Ugh, not you, too, Howard.”

Howard frowns. “What do you want, Jack?”

The other man rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me _you’re_ a Stevie Grant fan…”

Crossing his arms, Howard steps out from behind the kitchen island. “You bet your ass I am. That man’s an inspiration.”

“More like a disgrace to athletes everywhere.”

Bucky bristles at that. He knows just how important Steve’s advocacy for LGBTQ rights in the MLB has been. He also knows that he gave up most of his salary a few years ago in order to get the first trans members of the league on his team. “How, exactly, is who he is a disgrace?” Bucky can’t help but ask, words biting.

The man—Jack—shakes his head, grabbing another beer from the cooler by the door. It hisses as he pops the top. “I wouldn’t expect _you_ to understand, Flower Man.”

Howard closes the distance between them, voice rising. “Now hold on, Jack, you have no right to speak to my guest that way—”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt his _delicate_ feelings.”

“Jack—”

Before Howard can say anything more, a small group of people flood in from the living room. “Howard,” Maria walks over to him, “is everything okay.”

Bucky clears his throat. “It’s fine, Maria.”

“No the hell it’s not!” Howard turns to give Bucky a look, outraged on his behalf. Bucky just shakes his head.

“Yeah,” Jack says nonchalantly, stopping to take a gulp of beer that’s probably half the can, “it’s all good. I was just telling them how wrong they are to idolize Stevie Grant.” In that moment, Bucky knows no amount of intervention will derail this man’s tangent. “In here talking about him like he’s a god or something, supporting a team like his.” Jack sneers. “Those trans players. Disgusting.”

Bucky sets his jaw, taking a step closer, anger rising in him like a wave. “How _dare_ you—”

“All I’m saying is, women are women and men are men. You can’t be both. It’s simple.”

“Jack.” A man speaks from the doors leading out to the pool. Bucky’s not sure when he came in. His arms are crossed over his chest, the anger almost palpable in the air between them.

Jack rolls his eyes again. “And here’s the boy scout to save the day.”

The man steps toward him, but Peggy rushes between them from Maria’s side. “Daniel, don’t.” She gives Jack a dirty look. “He’s not worth the energy.”

“And big bad Peggy to the rescue!” Jack all but shouts. “Look at them, defending that gay, trans-lover Stevie Grant, everyone!” Bucky looks around uneasily as more people filter to the sidelines of the room.

“Mr. Thompson?” The voice is small, coming from the ajar door to the patio. Bucky takes in the surprise on Tony’s face, right before something else crosses it. “You’re mean! You’re just a big bully! Stevie Grant is awesome and cool and you—you’re just—you’re jealous because you’ll never be cool like him!” Tony turns around, but not before Bucky’s heart swells at seeing the tears in his eyes, and runs back to the pool.

The room is quiet for a moment after Tony’s interruption. “You’ve outstayed your welcome, Jack. Take your kid and get the hell out of my house.” Howard’s words are low, a threat to them. Jack snorts, finishing off his beer, before he heads to the front door, calling loudly for a child in the pool. Bucky doesn’t exhale until he hears the click of the door.

“Jesus.”

“Alright, everyone, nothing else to see here.” Maria tells the other parents. As they make their way out, Maria, Peggy, and Daniel move closer to Howard and Bucky.

Howard turns to Bucky. “You okay?”

Bucky sighs, then nods. “Who was that?”

“Father of a friend of Tony’s.” Maria says. “He and his wife are going through a nasty divorce. She’s great, but he has custody this weekend.”

“Poor kid,” Bucky mumbles.

“Right?” Howard agrees. “Where does he get off saying any of that? Jesus Christ, I hate that guy. I hate people who think like that. Closed-minded insecure pricks. Calling Stevie Grant names, criticizing every single thing he does. I mean,” Howard lowers his voice, “all those rumors about him? How he’s broke, that he hurt himself on purpose? It’s horrible. I mean, the man isn’t a saint, but damn. Let him live.”

“And anyway,” Maria adds breezily, “ask anyone who knows anything about him, and they’ll tell you he’s bi, not gay.” She rolls her eyes. “I hate when people think they mean the same thing.”

“Wait,” Bucky tries to process all of this, he stands up straighter at the revelation. “Steve—ie? He’s bi? Are you sure?” There had been speculation in the articles Bucky had read a couple years ago, but nothing solid was ever confirmed by Steve, as far as Bucky knew.

Howard closes his eyes and sighs, moving slightly away from Bucky. “Man, I swear, if you say anything about having a problem with a bi man working with Freddie, I’m going to—”

“No, no, nothing like that, I just didn’t know.” At Howard’s remaining dubious look, Bucky laughs. “I’m gay, Howard. Trust me, that’s totally not a problem for me.” He quirks an eye at the other man. “Do you have a problem with _that_?”

Howard looks at him for a long moment, the other three watching the exchange with waiting looks, until Howard bursts out laughing, patting Bucky on the back before he throws an arm around him. “I knew I liked you. Now help me finish getting the food ready. I’m sure Tony’s told the kids all about our drama. Let’s not add low blood sugar to their arsenal.”

Bucky’s relieved later, when the kids come in for lunch, that Freddie sticks by Tony’s side, the two of them whispering amongst themselves. Freddie catches his eye and shoots him a small smile. Bucky happily smiles back.

-

-

While working in the garden the next night, planting and weeding with Freddie and Sam’s help, Bucky had been more than surprised when the boy had asked him if they were going to still have a cookout on Father’s Day. He knew, of course, that it was always a tradition in the Jones’ family, but knowing the grief of the holiday, especially to Freddie, his question was the last thing he’d expected. Mother’s Day had been hard for them both, but Bucky was glad to see Freddie wanting to keep his family’s traditions alive, even in their deaths.

So, when Father’s Day comes, Bucky sends Sam out to buy all the food while he lights the charcoal grill. It’s a nice day, sun warm on his face, with a bit of a breeze. He has Freddie wipe down the patio table. As Bucky helps him unfold the umbrella, Freddie turns to him, baseball cap so far down on his face that Bucky can barely see his eyes. “Hey, Uncle Bucky? Can we invite Mr. Stevie and Mrs. Sarah?”

Bucky reaches out to adjust Freddie’s hat. The boy’s earnest eyes stare up at him, a hopeful expression on his face. Bucky pretends to think it over. If he’s being honest, he hasn’t actually seen Steve in a while, and Sam’s been harping on him to introduce him. Plus, Sarah would probably love to have all of them together. “Sure, Kiddo. Bribe them with brownies if they say no.” Freddie laughs, free and open in the summer air, before he runs to the other house.

Going into the basement, Bucky gets a couple folding chairs. As he makes his way back outside, he finds Sam putting bags of chips and various salads onto the table near the grill. He looks over at Bucky as he places the macaroni salad. “Where’s the Fredster?”

Right as Bucky opens his mouth to tell the other man, he hears Freddie’s animated voice and Sarah’s tinkling laughter. They round the corner as Bucky adds the hotdogs and hamburgers to the grill. Sam gives an excited whoop, like he didn’t just see Sarah yesterday for lunch and walks over to her with his arms open. “Mama Rogers, that’s what I’m talking about!” Sarah shushes him, but smiles, and lets Sam pull her into one of his signature bear hugs.

Bucky’s not expecting to see Steve with Natasha in tow. He catches Steve’s eye, feeling guilty, and walks over from the grill, hands in his pockets. Freddie occupies himself with talking to Sam and Sarah. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your PT.” He winces when Natasha frowns at him. “Again.”

Steve clears his throat, mirroring Bucky by shoving his hands into his own pockets. “Actually, I’m, uh, all done with that. Nat’s just here to…visit.”

Steve doesn’t look him in the eye when he says that, but Bucky smiles regardless, taking a hand from his pocket to reach out and pat the other man on the arm. “Hey, that’s great, Man! Congrats!”

Natasha raises an eyebrow when Bucky looks questioningly her way. “I’m only here because I was promised brownies.”

Laughing at that, Bucky turns back toward the other three. “Well, there’ll be plenty of food, that’s for sure. When Sam goes grocery shopping, he gets enough for a small fleet.”

Sam has the grace to look slightly offended and Freddie laughs, poking him in the stomach. “Yeah, Uncle Sammy _loves_ food.”

Sam scowls down at him and Sarah coughs to cover her laughter. “Are you calling me fat?”

Freddie giggles again when Sam reaches out to grab Freddie’s hand. He captures him in his arms and starts to tickle him. As Freddie shrieks with mirth, Bucky turns back to Steve. “Steve, this is Sam, my partner in crime.”

Sam mock-growls and lets Freddie go with a kiss to the top of his head. Freddie falls into the grass and Sam steps over him, nonchalant, to shake Steve’s hand with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Man. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He gives Bucky a pointed look. “From my nephew.”

Steve looks between the two of them for a moment as he shakes Sam’s hand. “Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you from Freddie as well. Air Force, right?”

“Yeah. Famous baseball player, right?”

Steve lets out a surprised laugh. “Used to be.”

“Eh,” Sam says, shrugging a shoulder and glancing to where Freddie now sits at the table with Sarah, “if it’s good enough for him, then it’s good enough for me. For real, though, nice to meet you, Man.”

“You, too.” Steve motions to Natasha. “This is a friend of mine, Nat.”

She lifts her hand for Sam to shake as well. “Pleasure.”

Sam nods. He looks to Bucky. “Well, I’ll go check the grill.”

As Sam starts to walk away, Bucky shouts. “Don’t burn them, Sam.”

Sam flicks him off. “I won’t, Bucky-duck.”

“I saw that, Uncle Sam!”

“You saw nothing, Kiddo. Got me?”

Bucky chuckles at the two of them. He leads Steve and Natasha over to the table, where they all sit and make small talk until the food gets done. Bucky probably spends too much time trying to engage Steve in conversation, but the man seems content to mostly talk with Freddie and Natasha. Which, Bucky doesn’t mind. He can talk to whoever he wants, and he’s very happy to sit next to Sarah and gossip about neighborhood goings-on. Sam, surprisingly, does not intentionally—or otherwise—burn anything. Bucky brings out lemonade and cut watermelon, and they all eat, talking and relaxing together.

Eventually, after the six of them make a good dent in the food, Natasha volunteers to play Cornhole with Freddie, and Sarah offers to help Bucky put away the leftovers, leaving Sam and Steve talking at the table over glasses of fresh lemonade. The air conditioning inside is a blessed relief.

“By the way, Sugar,” Sarah starts, “thanks for inviting us over. I think my Steven’s been feeling a little cooped up in the house lately.”

Bucky smiles at her, wondering if that’s why Steve had been acting a little strangely today. “It was actually Freddie’s idea. He wanted you guys here.”

“Aww,” Sarah leans back against the counter. “That’s so sweet of him. He’s such a good boy.”

Through the window, Bucky watches Freddie and Natasha play. “So, um, has Steve known Nat long?”

She looks at him with that mother’s gaze, like she can see _through_ him. “Why do you ask, Sugar Pie?”

Clearing his throat, Bucky makes quick work of putting things in the refrigerator, hoping the cold air will stop the blush that he knows is on his face. “No reason. She seems…nice, is all.”

Sarah snorts, undignified. “I’m not sure anyone’s ever called Natasha that before. But she’s a sweetheart to Steven and me, believe it or not. He’s known her since college; they started out in the same program, before Steven hit it big in the ball game. She’s protective—for the same reasons I have been. But she’s good people.”

Bucky sighs. “Good, that’s—good.”

Sarah hums. “She’s also happily married to a very nice young woman named Okoye.”

“Oh.” Bucky goes quiet after that, looking anywhere but at the rueful smile on Sarah’s face. They make their way back outside not long after. Sarah goes to join Natasha as Bucky sits down next to Sam.

“…you consider doing something like that? It would mean a lot to him.” Sam looks intently at Steve, who wears a somewhat uneasy expression, leaning back in his chair.

Bucky frowns. “What’s going on? What do you want Steve to consider?”

The two exchange a glance and Steve sighs. “Sam wondered…if I would go to one of Freddie’s games. To watch him play.”

Sam holds out his hands in a surrender gesture. “All I’m saying is that Freddie would have a field day. Kid’s got some serious hero-worship for you.”

“Nah,” Bucky cuts in, trying to defuse the tension he feels growing between the two. “He’s way better than he used to be. You’re just the cool neighbor now.”

“Maybe,” Steve’s words are quiet, “but the reality is that I’m Stevie Grant. And as much as I’d _like_ to go see Freddie, I just don’t know that I can. Hell,” Steve scoots closer to the table, glancing between Sam and Bucky earnestly, “I’ve been helping him practice for over a month. Of course I want to see him in action. But there are…logistical…concerns. I’d have to talk to my publicist.”

“It might not be the best thing for you, you know.” The words escape Bucky’s mouth before he thinks about them. He thinks about Jack at Tony’s pool party. About some of the other parents’ whispers he overhears at the games. He clears his throat at the look Steve shoots him. “People can be—small-minded, is all.”

“I can handle myself fine.” He tells Bucky flatly. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

Steve stands up, jogging over to the others. He hears Freddie’s energetic suggestions for a team match as he turns to Sam. “Did I just mess that all up with my big mouth?”

Sam looks at him with his sympathetic dark eyes. Bucky’d told him all about the events that had happened at the Stark’s house, and how he’d had a conversation with Freddie about it on the way home, about how adults can sometimes be bullies, too. That day had been hard. For them both. He tried as hard as he could to keep the people he cared about from bigotry, but often it was unavoidable. He hoped that Steve might one day realize he was just trying to help, to keep him from hearing all those people talk about him like that. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Sam puts an arm on his shoulder, pulling him into a hug. Bucky rests his forehead against Sam’s shoulder.

“It’ll be okay, Bucky. You were just trying to help.” Sam sighs. “I was probably too pushy, anyway. It’s just—I mean, you know—after everything that kid’s been through, he deserves some good in his life. He looks up to that guy so much, y’know?”

Bucky leans away a bit, to see Sam staring out at Freddie. “He looks just like Gabe did.”

Sam’s eyes meet his. “Really?” Sam asks, almost hesitant.

He nods. “Spitting image.”

They sit together, watching the others play. “He looks up to you, too. You know that, right?” Bucky stares at Sam, dumbfounded by his words. He starts to shake his head, but Sam continues. “We email, remember? The kid’s lucky to have you.”

Sighing, Bucky pats him on the back. “No, Pal. He’s lucky to have _us_.”

-

-

The next week passes slowly, Bucky enjoying as much time with Sam and Freddie as he can. Freddie’s summer school is nearly halfway over now, and whatever funk he’d been in before seems to be long gone. He wonders how much of that has been Sam, and how much has been the extra time Steve’s been spending with him practicing, now that his PT is over. Yesterday, Sam had insisted on a day at the lake with the three of them. It was nice. Normal. Bucky and Freddie could use more of that in their lives.

But the next day when Bucky takes Freddie to practice—one of the rare Saturdays without a game—it’s anything but normal.

For starters, Steve stands on the field with Thor and another man Bucky’s never seen before, as the kids and parents trickle over to the dugout, whispering among themselves. Freddie drops his helmet in excitement when he sees the man, running over without haste. Bucky’s slower to follow, stooping to pick up the lost article. Steve smiles at them and gives Freddie a hug when the boy jumps at him.

“Mr. Stevie! What are you doing here?”

Bucky raises his eyebrow, seconding Freddie’s question.

“Hey, Bud. You know, you always talk so much about how great your coach is that I thought I should finally meet him.”

Thor, boisterous as ever, energetically pats Steve on the back. “You are too kind, Mr. Grant.”

The man on Steve’s left looks anything but calm at the contact. Steve seems to notice and clears his throat. Bucky catches his eye. “Hey, Freddie, why don’t you go get ready with your friends and Mr. Odinson? You’ve got a big day ahead of you.”

“Okay, Mr. Stevie.” Freddie turns to Bucky and he passes his nephew the forgotten helmet. Thor puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder, guiding him away.

Bucky spots Howard and Maria, the two melodramatically fanning themselves and winking in his direction. He pretends like he doesn’t know who they are and turns back to Steve. “Hey, Steve. What—what are you doing here?”

“Uh, well. I’ve been thinking—about going to one of Freddie’s games.” He looks a little nervous, reaching up to adjust the cap on his head. “And my publicist—oh!” He gestures to the well-dressed, dark-skinned man beside him. “Bucky, this is T’Challa, my publicist. T’Challa, Bucky.” They shake hands as Steve continues. “Anyway, he suggested maybe going to a practice first, so that he could feel out the atmosphere before signing off on me coming to a game. So, he had someone get in contact with the league, and I got Freddie’s coach’s number. He was surprisingly open to it, considering. And he even asked if I would want to be the honorary coach for the day. Can you believe that?”

Steve sounds a little like a kid in a candy store, talking too fast, his words rushing into one another. Suddenly, Bucky understands the nervous tension in the other man. “You’re gonna kill it, Steve. And don’t worry about Thor. He really is great.”

Steve kicks at the dirt. “Yeah, he seems so.” Thor looks back at Steve and gestures for him to come over, probably for introductions. “Well, uh, that’s my cue.”

He walks away, leaving Bucky awkwardly standing with his publicist. The man looks coolly at Bucky. “Um. Do you, uh, wanna see where the bleachers are?” A nod from the other man is the only reaction. When they get to the bleachers, T’Challa sits at the farthest corner, away from the few parents who stuck around for practice. Bucky shakes his head, heading over to where the Starks wait for him, waving him over. In the diamond, the kids chatter excitedly, most of them in awe that a real baseball player is there. One girl looks so nervous, she’s a little green. Poor kid.

“Bucky!” Howard claps him on the back. “Congrats on ruining our date night, Jerk! I mean, I know you know a celebrity and all, but _honestly_ , did you have to show all of us up? I mean, do you know the kind of pressure this puts on us to be the ‘cool’ parents?” He rolls his eyes. “Tony’s gonna be devastated when we tell him we don’t know any famous people.”

“No, no,” Maria cuts in, all seriousness. “I have an uncle who was on Judge Judy once. He lost, but it’s our family’s claim to fame.”

Bucky lets out a long laugh. “If it’s any consolation, he’s here for Freddie, not me. And don’t sell yourselves short, you guys are plenty cool.”

Howard smirks at him. “Well, duh. I just meant we have to _keep_ being cool.”

“Freddie thinks you’re cool.” Bucky supplies helpfully.

At this, Howard and Maria share a fond look. Maria grabs her husband’s arm and puts her head on his shoulder. “We think Freddie’s cool, too,” she says.

Howard nods. “Oh, and speaking of Freddie. Tony’s been bugging us to ask if it might be okay to have Freddie over for a sleepover. There’s a cabin we always go to the weekend before the 4th, and Tony really wants Freddie to come.”

“And we’d love it, too. He’s such a nice young man.”

Bucky looks at their earnest expressions. His heart beats faster in his chest. Bucky couldn’t be happier that Freddie’s finally making friends, but it opens up so many more complications. “I’ll talk to him tonight after practice.”

“Oh, we asked him while you were talking to Mr. Popular. I’m sure he’ll say yes.” Maria offers him a smile.

Bucky clears his throat, looking around, before he pulls them a little further away from the field, making sure no one pays too much attention to them. He leans in close, lowering his voice. “Right, well the thing is—you see, Freddie, he’s—he’s—”

As if sensing his distress, Howard puts his hands up. “Whoa, Buddy, don’t have a conniption. We _know_ , okay.”

Bucky blinks dumbly, looking from one to the other. “What? You—you _know_?” He lowers his voice even more. “That Freddie’s trans?”

Reaching out toward him, Maria rubs at his arm. “Of course. Tony told us after his party. Freddie told him it was okay if we knew.”

“And is it—okay?”

Maria scoffs and Howard rolls his eyes, the two of them leaning back a little from him. “Jesus, what do you take us for, Bucky? Haven’t we been through this before? We’re cool, I swear.”

“Yeah,” Maria agrees with her husband. “And Tony _loves_ Freddie. He’s really trying to learn as much as he can about what Freddie’s going through.”

Nodding, Howard adds, “especially after that speech he gave Tony at the party. He said it _way_ better than we ever could’ve, honestly.”

“Speech?” Bucky shakes his head. “Wait, what speech?”

Howard sighs, looking away as if embarrassed. “Oh, you know. A whole speech about trans awareness and rights. Sounded goddamned cute, by the way. He even got Rhodey to sit down with him and Tony to have a talk about white privilege after Tony made an off-color joke.” Howard shakes his head, smiling. “That kid of yours. I mean, we _are_ awesome parents, so we’ve already brought some awareness into our house, but I think it really hit home for Tony having his best friend explain it to him.”

“He...said all that?” Bucky thinks about when he’d asked Freddie about Tony after they left, only to learn that Freddie had entrusted him with the truth. Bucky had been glad—glad to know Freddie had a friend he was comfortable enough with, that he could trust enough to be his true self with. But he hadn’t asked for details. Now, he wished he would’ve.

It’s Maria’s turn to smile at him. It’s soft, warm. “Tony told us Freddie said his parents always told him that the more people know and talk to others about that kind of thing, the more they’ll be understanding and accepting, but that listening to you is what really made him understand all that.”

Bucky feels speechless. He takes a moment to look out onto the field, where Freddie stands near first base, watching Steve teach Rhodey a different way to adjust his body when he pitches. “That…I didn’t know he actually _listened_ to all my rants!” He buries his face in his hands, laughing. “Oh, god.”

Another pat on his back. “ _That’s_ what you’re worried he listens to? Dear God. Maria, should we tell him about the time Tony overheard us talking about our _porn_ preferences? Now _that_ is a conversation you don’t ever want to have with a kid.”

“We had to explain to Tony that we were saying _pegging_ , not Peggy. Ugh.”

Bucky shakes his head at them. “You guys are crazy. Honestly.” They all share a laugh at that for a moment. “You know, you two can probably still have your date night. I know it must be hard to get alone time. I can take Tony out for pizza and drop him by later, if you want. Freddie would probably love that.”

“Oh, so you can keep Stevie Grant all to yourself?” Howard snorts. “Not a chance. We’re staying until the bitter end, so _you_ can introduce us and _I_ can fawn all over his glorious person.”

Maria scoffs at her husband, mock-affronted. “Howard Stark! You better share him with me.”

Bucky laughs until the angry mom from last month glares at him.

-

-

Freddie’s sleepover with Tony had gone off without a hitch, the two boys and Rhodey making plans to meet up for the 4th of July fireworks. Bucky knew, of course, that Becca always tried to make July 4th a special time for Freddie, especially since Bucky knew Gabe’s issues with fireworks. Sam had those same issues—ones made worse after losing a friend in the field almost four years ago. He knew how much Freddie wanted to meet Tony and Rhodey at the fireworks held by the soccer fields, but Bucky knew he wouldn’t be able to leave Sam alone.

Bucky remembered Sarah saying something about having plans that day, but he went over the day before to double check. Sarah had been out at the senior center, but he’d run into Steve—who had offered to take Freddie without a moment’s hesitation when Bucky explained he wanted to spend the night in with Sam. It had been a huge relief to Bucky, and he made a mental note to do something nice for Steve after, for helping him out.

The Fourth rolled in with a heat wave. All the fans in the world couldn’t help the sticky heat of the house, and Bucky breaks, finally flipping on the A/C, much to the delight of Freddie, who sits in front of it for almost an hour before a knock sounds at the front door. Freddie looks down at his clothes with a horrified expression before running up the stairs.  

Bucky shakes his head at the boy as Sam goes to answer the door. He sets down the apple he’d been peeling for turnovers, trying to keep his mind and hands busy. He’d tried to get Sam to help him, but the other man wouldn’t have it.

“Hey, man,” he hears Sam’s subdued greeting, and then footfalls on the hardwood as Steve comes into the house. Walking into the living room, Bucky sees Steve, standing near the couch with Sam. The shirt Steve wears is damp around the collar. “Hey, Steve. Freddie should be down soon. He just went up to go get changed.”

“No problem.” He shoves his hands into his shorts pockets.

Sam looks between the two of them, trying his best to force a smile before Bucky lightly pats him on the back. “Why don’t you go check on the little man?” Bucky suggests, and Sam vigorously nods his head as he makes his way up the stairs, leaving Steve and Bucky facing each other awkwardly, each standing by one side of the couch.

Steve clears his throat after a long moment. “So, you guys just having a quiet night in?”

Bucky gives Steve a soft, half-smile. “Something like that. I’ll be lucky if I get any sleep tonight with the way Sam gets.” Bucky shakes his head, “I’m just glad Freddie won’t be here for it. There are some things he _really_ doesn’t need to see.” He gives a small laugh, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, but Steve is nonresponsive. Bucky looks at him, really looks at him, and sees the tightness around his eyes, like he’s second-guessing a night out with the boy. “Hey, you sure you still don’t mind taking him?” Bucky asks, for what quite possibly is the third time in two days. “I know he can be a bit of a handful, especially when he gets around his friends.”

Steve shakes his head, as if coming out of his reverie. “I already told you, Bucky, it’s not a problem. Freddie’s a good kid, and his friends aren’t so bad, either.” He smiles softly, but it looks a little forced. “Besides, I’ve always liked the fireworks.”

Bucky nods. He always had, too. It was one of their family’s traditions. Bucky, Becca, and his mom. She used to take them to the fireworks in the next town over every year. They lit them off above a lake, and they would sit with a blanket on the edge of a nearby cemetery, where it was quiet, void of people, and watch the colors play over the stilly surface of the water. It’s one of Bucky’s favorite memories of them.

“Oh,” Bucky breaks his thoughts, suddenly remembering something. He walks to the hall closet, opening it up to retrieve a weatherproof blanket. “I picked this up the other day for you guys tonight.” He hands the compact article to Steve.

Steve grabs it, holding it sort of awkwardly in his hands. He stares at Bucky, like he’s trying to figure something out. Steve opens his mouth, eyes unreadable, “Bucky, I—”

 —But then Freddie comes stampeding down the steps, Sam hot on his tale.

“Mr. Stevie! I’m ready! Let’s go, let’s gooooo!”

He glances away from Bucky, looking down at Freddie. Steve reaches out to ruffle the boy’s hair, much to his protest and annoyance. Bucky wants to ask Steve what he was going to say, but then Freddie stops, turning around to run back to Sam. The boy throws his arms tight around Sam’s middle. “I love you, Uncle Sam.” He pulls back enough to look from Sam to Bucky. “Does that make it better?”

Bucky sees Sam’s lip quiver only for a moment, before he bends down and kisses Freddie on the top of his head. “You bet, Kiddo. Now get out of here. Go have some fun.”

Freddie rushes back to Steve and Steve ushers Freddie out, with an “I won’t have him home too late.”

After the door closes, Bucky turns to Sam, hoping to alleviate the emotions he knows Freddie stirred up in him. “Is it just me, or is Steve acting weird today?”

Sam shrugs. “Dude’s always a little weird around you, Buck.” Sam accentuates his point by plopping heavily onto the sofa. Bucky doesn’t dignify that with a response and goes back into the kitchen to finish his baking.

He’s rolling out the pie crust when the first firework starts.

Bucky drops what he’s doing, rushing into the other room. Sam sits on the couch, the light beside him the only illumination. He stares at the black screen of the TV, unseeing. “Shit,” Bucky mumbles, right before the next firework starts.

Bucky sits down, Sam tensing next to him, coiling up like a spring. “Sam, Sammy, breathe, okay?” Sam doesn’t respond, so Bucky tries again, as the fireworks become more frequent. “You’re home. You’re safe. I’m safe. Freddie’s safe. He’s with Steve, remember? It’s okay, Bud.”

“Bucky?” The pallor of Sam’s skin is stark, sweat trickling from his temples that has nothing to do with the temperature. He turns his head toward Bucky, and that’s progress Bucky will take.

“Yeah. It’s me, Sammy. It’s fireworks. It’s okay. Just listen for the echoes, alright? Listen for the echoes.” That was one of the very first things he’d learned from Gabe about his brother-in-law’s PTSD—as well as that of most soldiers—gunshots didn’t echo, and fireworks did.

A series of fireworks go off, and Sam reaches out, gripping hard at Bucky’s hand. Bucky’s been through this enough times with the other man to know what might help. “C’mere, Buddy. It’s okay,” he says, opening his arms and moving closer. He’s not surprised when Sam falls against him.

Sam sighs raggedly against him. “Riley.”

Bucky feels as though a hand clenches around his heart. There’s a wetness on his shirt that wasn’t there before—he’s honestly not sure if it’s Sam’s tears or their sweat, but can’t find it in himself to care either way—and Bucky soothes circles into Sam’s back.

A screamer goes off, and Sam shivers, followed by a series of rapid pops, which make him jump in Bucky’s arms. “The echoes, Sam. Remember?”

Sam nods shakily, his eyes closed. Another goes off. He whispers to himself, “Echo.” Then another, “Echo.”

Bucky nods, sighing softly, looking out through the gap in the blinds as the sky becomes faintly illuminated once again.

It’s going to be a long night. He holds his best friend tighter.

-

-

Bucky’s a little sleep deprived the next morning, having stayed up well into the early hours of the morning. Freddie had come crashing through the front door a little after midnight, and after a long battle with the boy, Bucky had made sure both he and Sam were asleep before he even went into his own room, where sleep took forever to come.

Which is why the rude awakening at seven the next morning by one very pissed off Sarah Rogers completely takes him off guard.

She comes storming into his room, the door thrown open with a _bang_ loud enough to make him glad the other two bedrooms are upstairs. “James Barnes, you get your sorry ass up right this instant.”

Bucky rolls over, squinting at her and the light flooding his room. “Sarah?” He thinks for a moment that this must be a dream, but why he’s dreaming about angry Sarah, he doesn’t know.

“Don’t you _Sarah_ me, young man!” She crosses her arms over her chest in a way that makes him feel like she’s seeing through him. Bucky’s very glad he threw actual pajamas on last night before going to bed. “Now, you _know_ I was planning something for Steven’s birthday, and you _still_ went behind my back to ask him to take Freddie to the fireworks last night. How could you! You know my boy can’t say no to you or yours.”

Her exasperation at him is apparent, but Bucky’s sluggish mind can’t make sense of _why_. “Wait, when is his birthday?” He shakes his head, opening his eyes wider like that might help to bring things more into focus. It doesn’t, just makes a headache start.

“It _was_ yesterday, you _boob_!”

Bucky freezes, realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. “Yesterday was?”

“Well, James, it’s not like the date ever changes.”

Bucky stares at her for a long moment, and then he moves in a flurry of limbs, kicking off the blanket to stand up—too quickly, he realizes, when the small throb in his temple becomes a sharper pain—and runs a hand through his sleep-messed hair. “Shit.” Sarah stands with a hip cocked, looking at him with her disappointed face. And Bucky hates that face on a normal day, but when it’s directed at _him_ , it makes something inside of him crumble. “Shit, Sarah, I didn’t know! Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t _you_ tell me?”

Rolling her eyes, she turned and left his room, walking into the kitchen, Bucky helpless to follow. She finds his kettle and filled it with water, putting it on the stove. “I _did_ tell you, James. And as I said before, Steven can’t say no to you, especially not where Freddie’s concerned.”

“But his birthday?” _Shit_ , Bucky really screwed things all up. Again, he runs his hand through his hair. “Is he home?”

Sarah shoots him a level stare. “Well, it’s not like he had much of a chance to do anything else last night.”

Bucky grimaces. “I really am sorry, Sarah. I didn’t know. I was so worried about being there for Sam that I didn’t think…” _about anyone else_. He sighs, looking away from her, out the window overlooking his garden.

Suddenly, he feels a hand on his shoulder. Sarah gives him a small, sad smile. “No, James,” she sighs as well, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about Sam. Does he still have a hard time?”

Bucky nods, remembering the way Sam shook, crying in his arms as the fireworks rang. “I just didn’t want Freddie to see him like that. _Sam_ didn’t want Freddie to see him like that.”

The kettle whistles, breaking them of their thoughts.

Sarah finds a tea bag and makes a cup to go, heading toward the door with the final words: “Make it up to him, James.”

Sarah Rogers doesn’t shame people very often, but when she does…

 _Make it up to him_. He thinks about that as he fixes his own cup of tea, knowing there would be no way for him to go back to sleep now. Instead, he makes eggs, then gets dressed, leaving a note on the counter for Sam and Freddie, then heads out.

It doesn’t take long to find the art supply store, but finding the perfect gift takes longer, his guilt making him spend more money than Bucky ever thought he would inside a place like this—but he hopes Steve likes the gift, that it might in some way make up for Bucky’s complete and utter lack of decency. He makes a few other stops after that, for wrapping paper, a card, and some of the normal groceries he knows he needs.

By the time he makes it home, wraps Steve’s gift, and puts the other groceries away, both Sam and Freddie have left for the day. Sam had dropped Freddie off to summer school on the way, leaving shortly after breakfast—lunch, really, since it’s nearly noon—to go see his friend, Wade, an old Military buddy of his, who had been discharged a few years ago and lives a few towns over. Bucky had met him once—and been intimidated as hell. Bucky had wished Sam luck.

Bucky goes to the shop to work in the greenhouse a little bit, until it’s time to pick up Freddie. After throwing the ball around in the back—badly—with Freddie for an hour or so, they retire back inside. It’s a hot day, but not sweltering. It gives Bucky an idea.

“Hey, Kiddo, how about we go to the Custard Shack?”

Freddie’s eyes go wide. “Really, Uncle Bucky?”

He knows it’s rare that they go out for treats—especially before dinner, but with Freddie in summer school while the rest of his friends get to sleep in and have fun, he feels like the boy has earned it. He ruffles Freddie’s hair—noting that it’s almost haircut time again. “Really.” He pauses. “Hey, what if we ask Mr. Stevie to go with us?”

Impossibly, Freddie’s eyes get wider. “Please, please, please! Can I go ask him?”

Bucky bites his cheek, knowing that with Freddie asking, it will be impossible for Steve to say no. “Sure.”

Freddie bolts out the door, giving Bucky just enough time to set Steve’s gift in the entryway by the front door for when they get back, and to grab his wallet and slip on shoes. He just steps out the door when Freddie emerges from Sarah’s, Steve in tow.

He smiles at Steve, who looks a little like a deer in headlights. He shakes his head, wondering how Steve can spend so much time around the boy and not be used to his high energy yet. “Hey, Steve, thanks for coming.”

Steve looks a little flustered, Freddie grabbing his hand as they start to walk. “Well, it’s not like I can say no to ice cream.”

It’s a decent walk to the Custard Shack, but the sun shines brightly, a slight breeze blowing around them. Freddie chats—mostly at them—about the fireworks, reminiscing with Steve about what Tony did, or what Rhodey said. When they finally stroll up the small building, Bucky’s glad to see that the line is short. It doesn’t take them long to order, and by the time their ice cream has been served, Freddie’s already deep in a conversation with a kid he knows from Tony’s pool party—Bucky’s pretty sure her name is Pepper—the two of them sitting in the grass together.

Steve sits down at a small table with a sun umbrella, and Bucky sits next to him. He eats the sundae slowly, savoring the coolness. “So,” Bucky begins, steeling his nerves, “why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday yesterday.”

Steve pauses, cone halfway to his lips. He winces. “Oh. That.”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky leans closer. “Yeah, just a little ol’ birthday.” He laughs a little at the guilty look on Steve’s face before he sobers. “I wouldn’t have asked you to take Freddie for the night if I knew. Honest.”

Steve shrugs, eating more of his ice cream before speaking again. “It wasn’t a big deal, really.”

“But it was your _birthday_.”

“Yeah,” Steve nods, smiling a little, looking over at Freddie. “And I had a great time.” Bucky feels a pang in his chest at the look on Steve’s face, wishing not for the first time today that he could’ve been there with them. “And besides,” he continues, looking back to Bucky, face earnest, “I wanted you and Sam to have a fun night in. You two deserve it. You do so much for other people, and I wanted to give a little of it back. Plus, Freddie’s a great kid.”

Bucky stares at him, ice cream left to melt in the summer heat. How can he tell Steve that last night was the opposite of fun—how can he tell him about Sam’s flashbacks, and the living hell he has to watch his best friend suffer through, the way it reminds him so vividly of Gabe, of the way Becca used to whisper to Bucky late at night on the phone, when she couldn’t sleep because _he_ couldn’t sleep—how it’s been years since he’s seen fireworks, and how he would’ve loved to watch them with Steve, to see the colors light up Steve’s profile, to look at him with the night behind him and the sky above him—especially knowing it’s Steve’s birthday. He would’ve made a day of it like his family always had—would’ve let Sarah make a day of it for Steve, because that’s what Steve _deserved_.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he says nothing, and finishes his sundae.

When they finally make it back to their block later, Bucky stops Steve before he can head home. “Wait,” he tells the other man, Freddie already having run inside their house. “I have something for you.”

“Bucky,” Steve sighs, but follows him to the porch steps. Bucky opens the door, finding Steve’s gift right where he left it, and walks back out, handing it to a very surprised Steve. He sits down on the wicker rocking chair to open it.

When he sees the paint set, his eyes widen. “Bucky…this is…” Shaking his head, he looks up at Bucky, the blue of his eyes like endless sky. “This is too much. I can’t accept this.”

“You can, and you will, Steve.” Bucky shakes his head at him. “Your art is amazing.”

“I—” he holds the paint set close, smiling softly at the other man. “Thanks.”

The smile on Steve’s face eases some of the guilt inside of Bucky.

-

-

The next week passes too quickly. It’s Freddie’s last week of summer school and by the end of the week, Bucky feels as though he hasn’t seen him in a month with how busy they’ve been at the flower shop. You’d think the superstition of July being an unlucky month to marry would dissuade people from committing their nuptials, but nope, the last two days alone saw five weddings, and tomorrow was a wake they would have to make flower arrangements for. But, luckily, his staff could take care of the rest of the details. He cut out a little early, wanting to spend the rest of the afternoon with Freddie.

But when he comes home, the house is quiet, still. He frowns, wondering where Sam could’ve taken him. And Bucky knows it was Sam, because he and Freddie had been practically glued at the hip this last week. Bucky’s grateful to have someone like Sam—for Freddie to have someone like him for the times when Bucky can’t be there.

It’s then that he hears the voices floating in from outside. He moves through the house, exiting through the sliding doors in the back. Outside, the sprinkler sprays as Freddie runs through it, clothes already soaked through. Sarah runs through after him, in a splattered sundress and straw hat. He looks around but doesn’t see Steve. He’s another one Bucky hasn’t seen all week.

 Sam stands near the grill, and when he sees that Bucky’s home, he walks over. “Hey, man.”

Bucky looks away from the other two. “Hey, how was Freddie’s last day?”

“Yeah, about that…”

It’s only when Bucky looks—really looks at Sam, that he sees the strain of his smile, the tiredness in his eyes. He straightens up. “What is it? What happened?”

“Calm down.” He looks around, smiling when Sarah waves at them. “Let’s go inside, Man.”

At the kitchen table, they sit. “Freddie didn’t want me to tell you, but you’re my brother, and I can’t keep something like this from you, especially not about Freddie.”

“Sam,” Bucky’s stomach twists. “You’re scaring me.”

Shaking his head, Sam laughs humorlessly. “It’s not completely bad—I mean it was, but it’s not anymore.”

“Sam. Explain. Don’t talk in circles.”

“Right,” Sam huffs. “Well, you know I’ve been picking Freddie up every day this week. Today, I went in, because I saw some other parents going in. They were all kinda waiting at the back of the classroom for the teacher to finish. So I was standing next to this one parent, right? And we start chatting quietly. Her name’s Melinda and she pointed out her kid, Robin—foster kid. She fell behind moving around so much the last year, but Melinda finally got her stable and whatnot. Reminded me of you and the Fredster, so I mentioned Freddie to her. She smiled at me and mentioned something about how great it must be for him to have so many people standing up for him.

“Naturally, I asked her what she meant. She looked at me, a little confused, I think, and said ‘Well, when Stevie Grant came in, of course. It was all Robin could talk about for days.’ So, I asked her—pretending like I know what the hell was going on—‘How so?’ and she tells me it was such a great lesson for all of them on bullying and how Robin said it really changed their teacher.

“And then, next I knew, school was over, and the kids started toward us. Freddie gave all his friends a big hug on the way out and chattered the whole way to the car. But when we got inside it, I turned to him, told him what Melinda had said, and asked him to explain.”

Sam takes a pronounced pause. “Well? Explain what?” Bucky asked, an edge of impatience in his voice.

“You aren’t gonna like it, Buck.”

“I already don’t like it.”

Sam’s dark eyes bear into his. “So, Freddie tells me the whole thing—how his teacher kept calling him Winnifred and wouldn’t listen to him that his name was Freddie, that he was a boy. Kept calling him ‘her’.” Sam shakes his head, taking a steadying breath while everything inside of Bucky quakes apart. “So, Freddie tells me he talked to Mr. Stevie, because he knew there were players on his team that got bullied and asked what he should do if someone does something like that. Steve, I guess, went to pick Freddie up instead of Sarah one day, and talked to the teacher about it. Freddie said, ‘Mr. Stevie is a superhero because he fixed it,’ and that I shouldn’t tell you, because Mr. Stevie took care of it all for him, and even came back the next day to speak during class, and how he was the coolest kid in the whole class because of it.”

His hands are shaking. He knows they are. Bucky feels the rage bubbling up inside of him like lava: hot, molten fire coursing through his veins. Why didn’t Freddie tell him? How could he have been so blind, not noticing Freddie’s depression earlier in the summer for what it was? God, if Becca were alive, she would kill him. He failed Freddie—completely and utterly—so much so that _Steve_ of all people stepped in.

 _Steve_. How dare he? What gave him the right to parent someone else’s kid like that? Bucky couldn’t believe it, tried and failed to wrap his head around what would compel someone to interfere in someone’s life like that—without telling Bucky _anything_ , without mentioning to him his kid was being bullied by an authority figure. It wasn’t his place. It was _Bucky’s_.

He wouldn’t even let Sarah get away with something like this. And he loved her. He trusted her to do the right thing for Freddie. But Steve—for all Bucky knew, Steve would be gone as soon as he healed up completely, just back in Freddie’s life fleetingly. Freddie’s hero-worship would fade one day, and Steve would let him down, or leave for good, and Freddie would be devastated. Bucky couldn’t watch that happen to him. Not again. His hands closed into fists.

“—cky. Bucky!” He hears Sam’s voice through the sudden burst of blood rushing in his ears, aware that he must’ve stood up at some point, because Sam sits below him, hands splayed in front of him in a surrender gesture. “Bucky, you need to calm down.”

“Calm down?” Bucky sneers. “That’s my _kid_ , Sam. Don’t tell me to calm down. He should’ve told me.”

“Freddie?”

“ _Steve_.” He spits out, turning into the living room, heading toward the front door.

“Bucky,” he hears Sam get up, hears feet pounding on the hardwood. “Bucky, he only did what he thought was right. He was trying to help.”

Bucky rounds on Sam. “Help? Sam, he’s only known Freddie for a couple months. _I’m_ his parent. _I’m_ supposed to be the one taking care of him. He should have fucking told me! I should’ve known. I should’ve _been there_ for him!”

He leaves Sam, stunned into cement stillness, in the living room. Slamming the front door behind him, he makes his way over to Sarah’s, hunting for Steve.

-

-

Bucky makes his way into Sarah’s house like a raging bull, breathing heavy, angry breaths. He hears the clatter of something upstairs and charges up the steps. He hears voices—somehow—through the ringing in his ears and doesn’t even bother knocking before he enters the second bedroom.

Steve sits on an exercise machine, pushing weights with his feet, sweat dripping from his brow, over the smooth perfection of his bare chest. Natasha stands next to him, stabilizing the weights. They both look at Bucky, surprised when he barges in. He points an accusing finger at Steve. “How fucking _dare_ you.”

Slowly, and with much effort, Steve pulls back his legs, the weights clacking. He sets his feet on the ground, leaning forward on the bench, reaching for his towel. “Bucky? What’s going on?”

“Freddie isn’t your kid. He’s mine.” The words come out acidic. “You had no right to play parent in a game you don’t even understand.”

Shocked silence follows, Steve looking up at Bucky with sad eyes. Natasha clears her throat. “Well, that’s my cue to go. I’ll let you boys settle this.”

The click of the door sounds like the first bell in an arena, and Bucky is ready for the fight. The anger in his veins is unlike anything he’s felt before. He’s used to being angry—angry at a world full of ignorance, pain, death—but this—betrayal, and something else Bucky thinks might be shame or fear—those are new, and it feels corrosive inside of him, makes him want to lash out, to drag Steve down with him.

“The school thing? Bucky, I was just trying to help.” Steve’s words, soft, gentle, are the first blow.

“It’s not your place.” Bucky’s words bite at the distance between them. “I don’t care if you were trying to help. You should’ve told me what was happening with Freddie. You don’t get to be the one who gets to decide what I do and don’t know when it comes to my family, Steve.” He stops, emotion grabbing at his throat. “There’s more going on than you can understand, do you get that? To you, he’s just some kid that you’re probably going to walk away from at the end of the summer, but to me, he’s my entire world. We’re the only family each other has. And neither of you told me about this. I should’ve been there to help him! It was my responsibility! And you—” Bucky’s voice breaks, the tears glazing his eyes making Steve into a blurry silhouette. “You took that from me, Steve. You took that moment from us. He should’ve trusted me, but he—he didn’t.” Bucky wipes furiously at his eyes. “The last thing my sister said to me the night she died was to take care of him, and I fucking failed, Steve. Do you know what that feels like?

“So, excuse me if I don’t give a shit about your intentions to help. Because you might’ve helped for a day, and I’m grateful that Freddie wasn’t suffering the whole summer—but a time’s going to come when something happens like this again, and you won’t be there, and he won’t feel like he can come to me, so he’ll put up with it, and it will hurt him, again and again and again. Because his life will be full of bullying and name-calling and terrible people doing terrible things—and he’s going to feel like he has to weather it all alone, when I will _always_ be there for him. Always. That’s _my_ responsibility. And you took that away.” He’s not sure why it sounds like he’s pleading, not sure if he’s pleading more with Steve or with himself to understand the storm raging inside of him.

“I-I’m so sorry, Bucky.” He looks a lot like a kicked puppy, but Bucky can’t find it in himself to feel bad. “I didn’t—I didn’t know—”

“No, you didn’t know. You don’t know anything about us, Steve, you just think you do.” Bucky takes a deep breath. “Freddie’s not just some kid, okay?”

“I know that, Bucky.” Soft words, like raindrops on an inferno.

“No, you don’t! He’s trans, Steve, okay? That’s why he was being bullied. It’s not just some middle school bullshit, it’s his fucking life!”

The silence rings with finality.

Slowly, Steve stands up. “I know, Bucky.” That soft voice again, full of understanding—maybe sympathy—when he should be angry, too, because Bucky just yelled at him—and Bucky wants to yell more, because he’s failing as a parent and Steve _knows_ it, and Freddie should’ve wanted to tell him, but he didn’t, and Bucky doesn’t know why, and it hurts that he doesn’t know why— And when Steve’s suddenly closer, right in front of Bucky, blurry again, shushing him, he realizes he’s been saying all of that out loud.

“Bucky…Freddie just…he said you had enough to deal with. That’s why he didn’t tell you. He made me promise not to. I wanted to, but he trusted me with his secret, and I didn’t want to break that trust. I should have, though, you’re right. You’re completely right, Bucky. I’m so, so sorry.”

“He shouldn’t—he shouldn’t feel like he’s burdening me, Steve. I’m here to take care of him, protect him. I’m supposed to take those burdens from _him_.” He shakes his head, breathing shakily. “I’m failing him.”

“No, no, Bucky.” He’s not expecting it when Steve’s arms wrap around him. Steve’s skin is warm, still a little damp. It should be gross, but the comfort outweighs the rest. “You’re not failing him. He loves you. He loves you more than you know. He knows you’re there for him. He’s such a happy kid, even with everything that’s happened to him—he’s so lucky, to have both you and your boyfriend. He couldn’t ask for a better family.”

Bucky absorbs Steve’s words slowly, dumbly, trying to make sense of the string of words. He pulls back, and Steve lets him. Bucky can feel the puzzlement on his face. “Bucky? What’s wrong?”

But he can’t speak, just stares up at Steve for another long moment, then, “I don’t—I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Steve stills, shrinking in a little on himself, dropping his arms to cross over his chest. “But…I thought…My ma said Sam lives with you.”

“Yeah, when he’s on leave.”

“But aren’t you—I just assumed—” He stops, looks back at Bucky with wide eyes. “Sam isn’t your boyfriend?”

The laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside. “ _Sam_? Sam Wilson? Are you kidding me? He’s my best friend; my brother in all the ways that matter.”

“So—so, you aren’t— _with_ him?”

“God, no! I’m single. _Very_ single.” He squints at Steve. “What gave you that idea, anyway?”

“Oh,” Steve looks away, his face coloring a little under Bucky’s gaze. “Uh, Freddie calls him Uncle Sam.”

“Yeah, and?” And then, suddenly, it clicks. “Ohh, I see.” He runs a hand through his hair, smile tugging at his lips. “It started out as a joke—Freddie’s father, Gabe, and him met in the service, became good friends. Becca thought it would be hilarious to have Freddie call him Uncle Sam—because, well— _Uncle Sam_ —and they were in the service. It was a whole thing.”

“Oh, that, uh, that makes sense.”

Steve lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck and it’s as if Bucky’s aware for the first time of his proximity to Steve’s shirtless chest on display. He clears his throat and looks away. “I’m, uh, sorry I barged in on your work out session. I mean, not really, because you totally deserved to be yelled at, but, yeah.” He looks back at Steve, his eyes—with a mind of their own—lingering on Steve’s chest. “I promise it won’t become a habit.”

Steve grins when Bucky’s eyes finally find their way to his, and there’s something just a little dangerous in it. “I’m not sure I’d mind too much.”

Oh, yes. Dangerous indeed.

-

-

Now that Freddie’s summer school is over, he starts spending more and more time with his friends. They go to each other’s houses, go to the lake, go to amusement parks and carnivals, and all the things Freddie missed out on over the last few months. It’s mostly Tony and Rhodey, but occasionally Peggy meets up with them, Sharon in tow. It’s refreshing, seeing Freddie so carefree, even if the endless running is a little exhausting, regardless of the other parents trading off driving shifts with him. He’s thankful for Sam but tries to keep his mind from agonizing on the looming countdown until his best friend leaves again.

Having Freddie out of the house so much does finally give Sam and Bucky time to fix up the place like they’ve been wanting, though. They break out the ladders late that next week, Freddie at a sleepover at Rhodey’s, grubby work clothes in place, and start to paint the north side of the house. It’s taken Bucky nearly three years to finally decide on a fresh color. They don’t make it very far before Steve comes out from Sarah’s, offering his help. Sam says yes before Bucky can say anything, shooting Bucky a wink when Steve goes back inside to change into painting clothes.

Sam brings out his Bluetooth speaker and the three of them take their time with the work, Sam and Steve laughing and talking like Bucky’s never seen them. Bucky smiles at the easy way the two of them get along, even if he tries not to dwell on the fact that Steve’s sudden shift in attitude happened right after he found out Bucky and Sam weren’t actually together.

He doesn’t expect Steve to keep helping, but the next day when he comes home from work, Steve’s back outside with Sam, another side of the house done. Sarah meets him in the driveway before he can head inside, inviting he and Sam over for dinner before he needs to run to get Freddie. Bucky accepts, goes in to grab a quick shower and change, and heads back over. Sam and Steve are still outside painting, but Sarah serves up his and her dinner anyway. “They’ll come in when they get hungry.” She shoots him a grin and scrunches her nose. “Boys.”

Bucky laughs as Sarah sits down. They make small talk until the other two come in, grabbing heaping servings of kababs, asparagus, and pasta salad. It’s nice, spending time with all of them at once. Bucky fleetingly wishes Freddie were here and looks at his watch. Sam must notice, because he sits back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. “Delicious as always, Sarah.” He claps Bucky on the back as he stands, something in his body popping loudly. “You stay here, I’ll get the kiddo and take him for his haircut.”

Bucky frowns, but his heart isn’t in it. “You sure.”

Sam waves his question away. “Make me one of those crunchy cake things and we’ll call it good.”

It takes Bucky a moment. “Pavlova?” But Sam is already walking out of the room.

Sarah chuckles, and Bucky looks back to her, but her eyes are on Steve. Steve looks at Bucky, eyes widened in something reminiscent of a puppy-dog look. “You know how to make pavlova?”

Sarah stands up, ruffling her son’s hair, much to his chagrin, and breaking their eye contact. “Stop drooling, Honey Bunch.” At Bucky’s questioning look, she explains. “It’s always been one of Steven’s favorites.”

Bucky sits back—only after Sarah reaches for his plate and he makes to stand and help her with the dishes, but she waves him away—and smiles at Steve. “Well, I can make it for you sometime, if you want.”

Steve looks away, shifting a little in his seat to bring his arms across his chest. His t-shirt is paint-splattered, the gray-beige standing out stark against the crisp white. “You don’t have to, it’s fine.”

“Really,” the smile Bucky gives Steve is smaller, feels different on his lips. “It’s no problem. Besides, Sam will just bug me until I bake one anyway.” He hesitates a little bit, the sound of dishes clacking in the sink and water beginning to run the only thing around them. “And—um, it could also be incentive to say yes to a favor I’ve been wanting to ask you…” The water shuts off.

“Bribing me with food?” Steve lifts an inquiring eyebrow.

Of course, it’s that moment that Sarah keys back into their conversation. From her spot across the room, she shoots back over her shoulder. “I always did say the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Steve goes red in a flash, and it’s so endearing that Bucky doesn’t even notice the “Jesus, Ma,” Steve says under his breath until Sarah stalks back over, lightly smacking Steve with the dishtowel.

He looks over at her, heat in his eyes like he’s offended, but she just sets her hands on her hips, brandishing an exasperated expression. “Steven Grant Rogers, don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain.”

Steve has the good grace to look sheepish and Bucky tries very hard not to laugh as Sarah saunters back over to finish the dishes. Steve shoots him a glare, narrowing his eyes at Bucky as if begging him to say something, but Bucky just lifts his hands up in surrender.

It takes a moment, but eventually, Bucky starts again, knowing Freddie and Sam will be back before long and not wanting them to know. Once Bucky starts talking, Steve relaxes, looking attentive, nodding along with Bucky’s one-sided conversation. By the end, Sarah’s pulled up a chair next to them and she claps her hands together, emitting a small shriek. Steve just smiles softly, nodding in agreement.

He catches Bucky outside a few days later, telling him he set up a time for them to go the following day. When Bucky tried to ask, Steve just grinned and said, “Stevie Grant has a lot of friends,” and that was that.

Bucky’s never been to a batting cage before. Honestly, until Freddie started getting into baseball, he’d never even been to a game before. Gabe and Sam were basketball people, and Bucky’d occasionally play with them—only to be slaughtered—until he finally learned his lesson and decided the only outdoor activities for him included gardening, cycling, and running. But— _but_ —Bucky knows how important baseball is to Freddie. Hell, he’d be blind not to. Just like he knows how much Freddie secretly wants Bucky to play at the end of the season’s Family Game.

It’s not something Freddie’s ever said outright to Bucky—or even Sam—but Bucky sees it in the looks when it’s mentioned at the end of practices, when his eyes linger on that date a little too long on the calendar. Gabe and Becca would’ve done it in a heartbeat—Freddie wouldn’t have had to ask. But Bucky’s not them—and it’s taken him a long time to warm up to the idea. Maybe it’s his way of trying to meet Freddie on his level, show him that Freddie is always going to be the most important thing in his life, that he will do whatever he can to contribute to Freddie’s happiness, especially after the bullying fiasco.

Bucky had sat Freddie down later that weekend, making sure to explain to Freddie why Bucky was hurt by Freddie wanting to keep a secret of that magnitude from him, but he made sure to tell the boy that he understood, and that they needed to always be honest with each other, even if they feel like they are trying to spare the other person pain. That’s what a family was supposed to be for, he had reminded Freddie. It had been a long and tough conversation, especially since Bucky’d never been good with words, but it was needed.

Now, he knew he needed to make his actions count.

Bucky and Steve arrive at the sports park early on a Sunday. Steve slings a large duffel bag over his shoulder as they head in. When they make it inside, Bucky’s not expecting the complete lack of people. It startles him into stopping, Steve nearly running into him. “Where is everyone?”

“I rented the place out,” comes the other man’s nonchalant response as he side-steps Bucky, continuing on.

“You _what_?”

Steve sighs, setting the duffel bag down with a clunk. “I know the owner. I used to come here and hit whenever I visited my ma. Let’s just say it was a lot of free publicity and she owed me a favor. Now come pick out a helmet.”

“You used a favor on me?” Steve shoots him a quick look, but Bucky can’t quite see what’s in his eyes, so he walks over obediently. Steve glances at him again, like he’s sizing Bucky up—which makes sense a few moments later when Steve thrusts two different sized helmets at him, each with flaps jutting out on the left side. Bucky takes the first one, putting it on. Steve must see something on his face, because he sets the other one down and comes over to see if it fits. Steve places his fingers on the inside, near the padding around his ears and moves the helmet backwards and forwards. He frowns, as if unsatisfied, and takes that helmet off Bucky. Before Bucky can say anything, Steve comes back with the next helmet, once again slipping his fingers in near the ears. This time, the helmet barely gives. He nods in satisfaction and picks up the duffel once more.

They walk out into the sun, following a path leading to the batting cages. Steve pulls out a ring of keys from his pocket, unlocking one of the cages, before he once again drops his duffel, kneeling beside it this time to unzip. The first thing Steve pulls out is another helmet—this one must be his own personal one—with a matching piece along the left. “Hey, what are these anyway?” Bucky gestures to the flap along his jaw on the left side of his face.

Steve looks up only long enough to squint at Bucky. “Those are C-flaps. They help protect your jaw and chin, incase a ball hits you. Here,” he tosses something white at Bucky—two somethings, Bucky realizes. He looks at the gloves, pristine and crisp.

He can’t keep the surprise out of his voice when he asks, “Did you buy these for me?”

Steve had put on his own helmet, and already started slipping his own gloves on, conveniently not looking at Bucky as he tightens the Velcro on his wrists. “I just—didn’t think mine would fit you.”

Bucky suppresses a smile—barely—and puts the gloves on. They’re a perfect fit. “Okay,” Bucky claps his gloved hands together. “What’s next, Boss?”

Steve pulls out a couple different bats from his bag. “How much do you know about bats?”

“Uh,” Bucky tries really hard to remember everything Freddie might’ve said about them over the last season. “You pick the size by your height, right?”

Steve stands up from his squat over the bag. “Sort of, but the length can vary. Take this and head into the cage.”

Bucky grabs the neck. It’s a lot bigger than Freddie’s bat, and the weight of it feels foreign in his hands, but not as heavy as he’d expect. He walks into the cage, only to have Steve close the door behind him. Bucky turns around, heart hammering. “Wait, you’re not just going to _start_ it, are you?”

Steve leans on the fenced door, rolling his eyes. “No, I just want to see a few practice swings, so I know what I’m working with.”

“Oh,” Bucky mumbles dumbly. He’s watched Freddie do this a hundred times and tries to imitate him. He spreads his feet apart, gets a firm grip, and remembers at the last second to lift his back elbow up. The swing he makes is anything but graceful, and he feels himself start to spin around with the force of it.

He drops the top of the bat to the ground, turning back to Steve, who looks at Bucky with pressed lips and barely controlled laughter. Bucky sighs in exasperation. “Well, I _did_ tell you I need help.”

“That’s an understatement, Buck.” Steve turns away, back to his bag. Bucky wonders if he even realizes he’d called him ‘Buck.’ The only people who call him that are Freddie and Sam. Bucky thinks it should bother him, but instead it makes something warm flare up inside of him. Maybe it’s all the time Steve’s been spending over the last couple weeks with Freddie and Sam. He’s not sure, but doesn’t really mind, either.

The cage door opens and Steve comes in with another bat. Bucky trades it for his when Steve tells him to. This bat is heavier, more solid on his hands. Bucky knows it’s made of wood before he sees the small nicks and scratches along the barrel. “Okay,” Steve starts, bringing Bucky’s attention back to him, “I’m not criticizing you, but I’m gonna try to point out everything you did wrong.”

“Oh, thanks, Steve. That’s a promising start.” Bucky’s words hold no heat and Steve grins when he motions Bucky over in front of him. Bucky can count the inches between them—there aren’t that many—and swallows hard. “Get back into hitting position.”

Bucky does, but is unprepared when Steve kicks at his left foot. He almost loses his balance but readjusts. “Good. Your feet weren’t wide enough apart before. Think of your body as a tree,” Steve explains, blue eyes intense and captivating. “A tree—or a plant of some kind. If the roots are weak, the plant will die. Just like having a weak foundation for batting will cause you to lose balance or overcompensate a swing. Feet should be parallel, just a little wider than your shoulders.” Steve’s eyes bear into Bucky’s. “How does that feel.”

“Better, actually.” Bucky shifts a little. “What’s next, Boss. Oh—or should I call you Coach?” Bucky can’t help his teasing tone.

Steve lifts his face up, exasperated, before shaking it and looking back down. “Next, let’s work on your grip.”

Bucky does what he did before, lifting the bat up again. Steve steps forward, grabbing at Bucky’s forearm for him to bring it back down. “You’re holding the bat too tightly. Don’t choke it, it hasn’t done anything to you.” Bucky snorts at that. Steve moves Bucky’s hands down until the side of his lower hand rests against the knob. “The lower your grip, the more control you’ll have of the swing.” He guides Bucky’s hands and the bat back up, his own still covering Bucky’s, shifting his grip once again. Bucky looks down when Steve trains a finger over the black lines on the backs of Bucky’s gloves. “See this line? These should line up on both hands when you grip the bat. Feel how it loosens your grip? That’s what you want. Keep your fists loose, low, and in control.” Steve steps back, out of the cage once again. “Now try swinging. Let’s see if the heavier bat helps, too.”

Bucky feels out the new position. His hands feel a little awkward, but he swings anyway. He still doesn’t feel great about his chances, but he can’t help but admit that he definitely felt like he had more control that time. He didn’t keep spinning, didn’t lose his balance, and was able to stop the bat a lot easier.

“Alright.” He doesn’t even hear Steve come back in, until the gate swings closed again. “I think you’re good. You ready?”

He shoots Bucky a questioning look. Bucky shifts his shoulders, then smirks. “Why not.”

Steve chuckles, then goes over to a small box. He pulls at a button, then presses another one. A red light comes on, and Steve slips out of the cage just as Bucky hears the batting machine whir to life. “I set them slow, don’t worry.”

Bucky nods gratefully, but doesn’t bother with words, as all of his attention is on the feel of the bat in his hands, the placement of his feet on the dirt. He lifts his back elbow again, just as the machine shoots out a ball. Bucky tries to keep an eye on it, swings with everything he has…

And misses. He tries not to be disappointed, but the next few swings don’t fare any better. He sighs in frustration when Steve comes back in, pressing a button to stop the machine. “Why is this so hard?”

Steve lets out a small laugh before he can stop himself, covering his mouth belatedly. “I mean. They say things take practice for a reason.”

Bucky shoots him a sidelong glance and Steve lifts his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. You ready for a few more tips.”

“Please.” Bucky hopes he sounds sincere and not petulant.

He’s not expecting it when Steve comes behind him. Bucky tenses up at having the other so close to his back. If he thought the intensity in Steve’s eyes was distracting, it’s nothing to now, with the heat of Steve behind him, the soft words he whispers. Bucky fights himself to pay attention, but still jumps a little when he feels a hand on his hip. It’s warm even through Steve’s gloves and Bucky’s jeans. It takes him a long second to understand what the touch means. He dips forward, bending a little until he hears Steve’s hum of satisfaction.

“Now bend the knees a little.” Bucky does so, his mouth a little dry, grip on his bat tightening. “Geez, relax a little, Bucky. What did I say about choking the bat?” Bucky hears the smile in Steve’s voice and does his best to relax his grip and his shoulders when Steve tells him to bring the bat up. He does so slowly, not wanting to hit Steve, but Steve grabs at his elbow when he shifts the bat back, guiding it lower than he’d been holding it. He puts his other hand on Bucky’s left shoulder.

“There.” Steve’s voice, barely a whisper, too close to the back of his neck, makes Bucky shiver. “That’s better.” Steve walks back around, looking at Bucky like he’s admiring his form, before he heads back to the button, repeating the sequence to turn the machine back on.

This time, Bucky lets the first ball pass, catching in the net behind him. He judges the speed, the height, then closes his eyes, centering himself. When the sound of the next ball starts, he opens them again. The swing catches at the ball—not a hit, but he got a piece of it, and it makes him even more determined. He catches another piece of the next, misses the one after, and the one after that. He’s about to give up altogether—because if a former pro can’t even help him, he’s doomed—when he makes one final swing, imagining the bat smashing the ball.

—And it works. The crack resounds across the empty cages, and the ball flies off to the netting on the left. Bucky stands still, watching the ball roll away, all the way on the other side, where _he hit it_. He drops the bat with a whoop, turning to find Steve, but he’s somehow already back inside the cage, having turned the machine off, and strides over to Bucky with excitement plastered on his face.

“Bucky! You did it!”

Bucky removes his helmet, taking a deep breath, as if that might help the pounding in his chest. “I know! Can you believe it?” He motions to the ball, so far away, opening his arms in a sweeping gesture, and grins at Steve.

Steve, too, removes his helmet. The smile on his face is warm and wide. “You’re a natural.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, shoving a little at Steve’s chest, but chuckles good naturedly. “Yeah, right. I’m pretty sure it’s all in the teacher.”

“No, really,” Steve’s gloved fingers wrap around Bucky’s wrist, where his hand is still flat on Steve’s chest. His voice drops, and the excitement on Steve’s face from a moment ago stills, becomes something else. “You’re amazing, Buck.”

The distance between them feels closer than before, with the way Steve looks at him, lips tilted at the corners. Bucky’s excitement settles, too. He swallows hard, trying not to focus on the feel of Steve’s hand on him again. “That’s the second time.” Confusion crosses Steve’s face for a moment. “That you’ve called me Buck.” Bucky clarifies.

“Oh. Sorry.” The fingers around Bucky’s wrist don’t release, just keep holding on, like he’s not even aware he’s doing anything. “Is that—” Steve licks his lips, and Bucky can’t help but trail his eyes over them. “Is that okay? I mean, I didn’t even realize I was—”

“Steve?” Bucky looks back up at him, cutting him off, until Steve’s blue eyes meet his.

“Yeah?”

Bucky flexes his fingers against Steve’s chest. “Can I kiss you?”

Steve’s fingers tighten, just a little, on Bucky’s wrist. It’s the only indication Steve heard him, until Steve leans in, closing the inches between them in answer, until his lips press—warm, firm—against Bucky’s. He fists his hand in the collar of Steve’s shirt, other hand still firmly clutched on his helmet, and sways into the other man, let’s the adrenaline from his hit pour out from his mouth.

He’s not sure who pulls away first, but Bucky takes advantage to gasp in greedy air. They’re still close, neither one daring to move. Steve’s lips have pinkened a little, and Bucky wonders if his lips look the same. “We should…” He tries to find his voice, eyes searching Steve’s face, trying to drink him in. “We should keep practicing.”

Bucky hears Steve’s hard swallow, right before he steps away, eyes still locked on Bucky’s face. “Practice. Yeah.” He shakes his head a little, still looking a little dazed. “Put your helmet back on. I’m gonna start the machine again, okay?” Bucky must take too long to respond, because Steve clears his throat. “Bucky?”

Bucky slips his helmet back on, grabbing his discarded bat. He nods. “Okay.”

Steve bites his lip, nodding back, like the answer to some question neither of them asked. “Okay.”

-

-

Having spent a majority of his life in florist shops—particularly _this_ one—the soft tinkle of the bell as the front door opens barely registers to Bucky’s ears anymore. He’s in the back, sorting the fresh picks Bobbi brought in, when he hears the commotion out front. He thinks he recognizes a voice—but, no, that can’t be right—and walks out of the back to the registers.

But there on the other side of the counter is Freddie, calling his name and ducking under the drop counter to wrap his arms around Bucky’s middle. Steve stands on the other side, hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it, and eyes wide.

“Bucky.” It’s just his name, but the despair in Steve’s voice echoes like a prayer in his head.

Bucky meets Steve’s eyes, petting at Freddie’s hair. “What happened?”

It’s not what Bucky really wants to say, especially after their last conversation had resulted in the kiss—the one neither of them mentioned the rest of the practice, or when they finally picked up all the baseballs, filling buckets of them together with glances caught between them, or the silent, almost excruciating ride home. But the panic on Steve’s face, now that Freddie couldn’t see him, only grew with Bucky’s question. Now wasn’t the time for that conversation.

“It’s my mom.” The words barely pass Steve’s lips, and they make Bucky go cold. “She’s in the hospital.”

Suddenly, their arrival makes more sense. Steve had been watching Freddie while Bucky worked and Sam filled in for Scott on deliveries—it was Scott’s daughter’s birthday—and while Sarah went to her exercise class. Bucky understands it in a second. He pulls Freddie off of him, just enough to crouch down, to look him in the eye. Freddie doesn’t look as scared as Bucky feels, and he’s not sure if that’s good or bad.

“Hey, Kiddo, are—are you okay?”

Freddie nods sagely, then looks at Bucky with wide eyes. “Is Mrs. Sarah gonna be okay?”

Bucky shoots a worried look at Steve, but the other man stares forlornly out the window. “I-I dunno, Bud.”

“Are you gonna go with Mr. Stevie?” Freddie leans closer, wrapping his arms around Bucky in a makeshift hug. “He seems real sad, Uncle Bucky. Will you go with him?”

Bucky can’t think of anything to say, so when Freddie pulls away, all he can do is look at him. “I can’t leave you here, Kiddo.”

“Sure you can.” Bobbi’s voice from behind startles him, but the sure look on her face after she exchanges a look with Hunter sets Bucky at ease. “We’ll stay with him.”

Bucky stands up, grabbing for his car keys only to remember Sam’s currently got his truck for deliveries. “Can you call Sam? Let him know what happened.”

Bobbi nods in response as Bucky makes his way to the other side of the counter. Freddie rushes over to Steve before Bucky can stop him, throwing his arms around the other man like he’d done earlier with Bucky. “Mr. Stevie?” Bucky watches Steve try to compose himself, how he pushes the haunted look from his eyes to give the boy an attentive look.

“Yeah, Buddy?”

“It’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

Bucky’s heart breaks a little at the quiet words. How Freddie can still be so positive in the face of everything he’s gone through, Bucky doesn’t know, but he’s grateful, especially when Steve gives Freddie a small smile.

“Did you drive here?” Bucky asks, when Freddie pulls away and goes back to Hunter and Bobbi. Steve nods, pulling out Sarah’s keys from his pocket. Bucky snags them without protest from Steve, and they head out. It’s only a ten-minute drive to the hospital, but the minutes feel excruciating. When they stop at a red light just a block away from the ER, Bucky chances a look at Steve. His clenched jaw looks like it hurts; his body is rigid from his shoulders down to where his fists clench. Bucky doesn’t think about it, just reaches out and places a palm over Steve’s, until the other man’s hand falls flat, pressing their palms together. Bucky gives Steve’s hand a small squeeze before he drives the rest of the way, parking in the closest open spot he can find.

The two of them rush inside, Bucky making strides to the information desk to find out about Sarah, Steve silent and stoic behind him. The receptionist hesitates when Bucky gives him his name. “Are you family, Sir? I’m afraid only family is allowed to see her.” Bucky wants to shout and scream that _Sarah Rogers is the closest thing he’ll ever have to a mother, godamnit_ , but the words stick in his throat, the panic he’s been trying so hard to keep at bay comes rushing back out.

…Bucky isn’t aware his hands have started shaking until he feels Steve’s slip into his own once again. It brings him back to reality for a moment, anchors him, reminds him to breath. But then Steve’s next words knock the breath out of him completely. “He’s family,” comes Steve’s stony reply.

Bucky feels as though the breath has been punched out of him. Family. Is that how Steve really feels, maybe how Sarah feels? Or is it just a way for Steve to move this along, a way to get them in to see his mother?

The woman behind the desk asks for his name, and Steve surprises Bucky by saying, “Stevie Grant.” He gives the receptionist a charming smile that takes Bucky off guard. “Stevie Grant Rogers. Can we see my mother?”

At once the woman changes her tune, eyes going wide as she reaches for a call button and some other paperwork. “Oh course, Sir.” She glances down, eyes lingering on the tight grip each of them has on one another’s hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were married.” Bucky freezes, eyes widening as he glances Steve’s way, opening his mouth to say that’s not what they are.

“No problem.” Steve says it with a straight face, not even looking at Bucky, but giving his hand a hard squeeze as if to say, ‘play along.’ An information specialist gets called over to show them to Sarah’s room. Steve’s palm is warm and sure in Bucky’s as they trail after the guide. Bucky keeps shooting Steve worried glances that their guide somehow always manages to see.

When they make it into the elevators, the woman turns to Steve. “It’s refreshing to see such a caring couple. So nice he’s just as worried about your mother as you are. Not all in-laws get to say that.” She gives a pointed look at Bucky and Steve follows her gaze. Their hands are still clasped, so Steve uses their hands to drag Bucky closer, then puts his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky stiffens, then relaxes when Steve gives him a pleading look. “How long have you two been together?”

Bucky panics at the question, but Steve looks away from Bucky to the woman, all Stevie Grant charm when he chuckles and flashes his dimples, looking away as if embarrassed. “Not too long, actually.”

The woman laughs and claps her hands together. “Ah, the honeymoon phase. I remember it well.” And oh god, Bucky wants to die a little. Steve’s cheeks pink, and Bucky feels his own flame to life in mortification. He can’t help the groan he lets out, turning to hide his face against Steve’s throat. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman can’t keep the smile out of her voice. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Love.”

Bucky clears his throat, pulling away. He forces a smile and brings an arm up to snake around Steve’s waist, hoping it comes off as coy instead of awkward like it feels. He doesn’t focus on the way Steve’s grip on his shoulders tightens, or the way the warmth from his skin somehow seeps out through all their layers of clothes to make sweat prickle at the back of Bucky’s neck. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t be so embarrassed.”

The woman laughs again. “I should think not, with a fine young man like that. Lucky you.”

Bucky feels a little like a dear in headlights, and is grateful when Steve shifts them a little, blocking the woman from Bucky’s face.

“No,” Steve murmurs, looking anywhere but at Bucky, “I’m the lucky one.”

 It steals the breath from his lungs. He opens his mouth—because they _need_ to have a conversation about this—about their _kiss_ and everything it means, and if this is really _this_ or an act to get Bucky into Sarah’s room, because he’s not sure his heart could take the latter—and it’s on the tip of his tongue to say something when the elevator doors open, and they once again begin weaving their way down hallways and corridors. The guide gestures them to a room, just as a doctor comes walking out.

“Doctor!” Steve’s near shout gets her attention as he practically sprints over, dragging Bucky behind. “Doctor, hi, I’m Steve. My mother is supposed to be in this room…?”

The Doctor’s look softens, and she smiles at him. “Ah, yes, Sarah mentioned you would probably be here soon.”

“Is she okay?” Bucky can’t help but jump in.

The doctor takes note of their clasped hands and nods at them both, pulling them a little further away from the door. “Sarah fell during her yoga class.” The sharp breath Steve sucks in makes her pause only for a second. “We took her for scans and x-rays when she came in. She’s got a mild concussion and a sprained wrist. She’s lucky she didn’t break anything. CT scan showed no bleeding in her brain. She’ll be good as new, but we want to keep her overnight for observation.”

As if on cue, Bucky and Steve let out the breaths they’ve been holding. Steve leans a little closer to Bucky, like he’s not sure that he’ll be able to keep holding himself up without him. The doctor smiles at them again. “If you’d like to see her, she’s awake, but needs rest and quiet.”

Steve nods vigorously and heads into the room, Bucky at his side. Sarah sits up in the bed, chatting with a nurse between sips of water. The nurse sees them first and smiles. “Ah, you must be Sarah’s son.” The nurse nods at Steve. “Front desk radioed that you would be up to see her soon.”

Sarah giggles, looking over at them—and Bucky wonders if there’s something other than saline in her I.V. or if it’s a side effect of the concussion—but then Sarah looks between them and says, “Oh yes, they said you and _your husband_ would be right up.” Sarah looks to the nurse in the room. “Isn’t my _son-in-law_ handsome, Wendy?” She winks their way when the nurse looks back to them.

Steve and Bucky freeze, Bucky suddenly aware that he hasn’t let go of Steve’s hand since they arrived. Steve lets go first, and Bucky shoves his hands into his pockets as Steve strides over to Sarah with a “Ma” that sounds like Steve’s holding back tears.

“I’ll give you all a few minutes,” the nurse says as she walks out.

The absence of Steve’s hand in his leaves him cold. Bucky takes a step back, trying to remember his place. He’s not Steve’s anything. Not his husband, not his boyfriend—just a guy who lives next door—who Steve _kissed_. Oh god, what if it was a pity kiss? What if that’s why Steve had been avoiding him? Bucky looks away from them when Steve bends down beside Sarah’s bed, when they reach for each other in a hug that can only be between mother and son, when Sarah lets out a ragged sound, calling Steve ‘Honey Bunch’ and assuring him that she’s okay.

He’s not Steve’s anything, nor is he anything to Sarah. Sarah has a son—a real one, who can hold her and laugh with her and spend the holidays with her. They have each other. And as much as Bucky allows himself to think differently, to _feel_ differently, Sarah isn’t his. Sarah has Steve, and Bucky has Freddie.

It should be enough.

“James.” Sarah’s voice breaks him of his thoughts. When he looks to the bed, Sarah’s hand reaches out for him, and the familiar ache in his chest flares up. Steve shoots Bucky a questioning look and Bucky wonders what’s on his face to elicit that response, before Steve scoots over to make room at the edge of Sarah’s bed, one of his hands settling in his mother’s—the one without a wrap on the wrist.

Why doesn’t it feel like enough?

Bucky’s at the bed in two strides, wrapping his arms around her. “God, Sarah, I was so worried about you.”

Sarah gives him the softest of smiles when Bucky pulls away. “Sugar Pie, I’m strong as an ox. One little fall can’t keep me down.” He lets out a surprise laugh at her words. That’s the Sarah Rogers he knows and loves. She pauses to look between them, Steve sitting on the edge of the bed, fawning worriedly over her, and Bucky standing in the space beside her bed. “Husbands, huh?”

Steve sighs. “Don’t start, Ma.”

-

-

Friday morning rolls in with a light rain. Bucky heads over to Sarah’s anyway, managing not to get completely soaked, hoping she’s still in bed, or else he is going to give her a piece of his mind. She’d come home last night. Bucky saw Steve helping her out of the vehicle and into the house. He figured he would give them the night together. It’s early. Sam and Freddie are still asleep, and Bucky has a little less than an hour before he needs to be at the shop. The back doors aren’t locked when he gets there, so he lets himself in. He heads right to the vase on the table, taking out the just-starting-to-die tulips, replacing them with the white roses and carnations. He turns, to throw the old flowers away and get fresh water for the vase and stops.

Steve stands in front of the stove, placing strips of bacon on a sheet to bake before he puts it into the oven, then continues on to scoop batter into the waffle maker. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows Bucky’s here—Bucky can tell by the tense set of his shoulders, the way he hunches a little over the stove. Bucky steels himself, then walks over. He throws out the old flowers, turns on the faucet to add water to the vase before he sets it down, and reaches for the kettle on impulse, filling it. But then he looks between it and the stove and Steve.

Steve silently puts his hand out and Bucky gives him the kettle to put atop the stove. Bucky turns back to the forgotten vase, tweaking the flowers this way and that—adjusting just to give his hands something to do while Steve starts scooping more batter into the waffle maker. The bacon popping in the oven and the light rain on the roof are the only sounds in the room.

 “Are we going to talk about this?”

Bucky doesn’t mean for the words to come out, but they do anyway, and he can’t take them back. The last couple days had been an emotional whirlwind, and he wants—needs—some kind of clarity.

Steve takes out the next waffle, adding it to the small stack already started, then turns to face Bucky. Bucky tries to read his face but can’t—he doesn’t look upset or sad or annoyed—just wears a calm mask of indifference that kills Bucky inside. “If you want to.”

Bucky stops fiddling with the flowers, dropping his hands to cross over his chest. He doesn’t know how to navigate this strange new territory. “Do _you_ want to?”

Steve shrugs, looking away from Bucky—his mask slipping just a little. “I don’t _not_ want to.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“Maybe you’re not asking me the right question.”

The hushed conversation strings the tension up like a taut rubber band between them. Bucky stares at Steve, searching his face for something—anything—that might give away what he’s thinking. “Why did you kiss me?”

A muscle in Steve’s jaw twitches. “Is that really the question you want to ask?”

But Bucky shakes his head before Steve’s even done asking. “Do—do you regret it?” He doesn’t mean for the words to come out so small, so timid, so he looks away. It’s only the feel of Steve’s hand on his shoulder that makes him look back up at the other man.

“Bucky, I’ve wanted to kiss you since we met at the flower shop.”

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it. “That’s not an answer eith—”

“Jesus, you’re impossible, Bucky, you know that?” Steve softens his words with a small stroke of his thumb over Bucky’s skin that draws all of Bucky’s attention for a long moment. He only looks back to Steve when he starts to speak again. “I don’t know why I like you so much.”

The nonchalant words are at odds with the way the corner of Steve’s mouth lifts in a small smile. Bucky drinks it in, repeating Steve’s words in his head like a mantra. He tries to speak—once, twice—before his tongue finally untangles itself inside his mouth. “I mean, I am pretty great.”

Steve’s hand moves from Bucky’s shoulder to gently cup his face. “Yeah. You are.” Bucky’s not aware just how close they’ve been standing until Steve’s mere inches from him, looking across the divide at Bucky with his soft eyes and softer expression. “The only thing I regret is that I’ve been so stupid this summer when it comes to you.” At Bucky’s questioning look, Steve continues. “All my life I’ve gone after what I want. It’s easy for me to want you, Bucky, but I spent so long thinking I couldn’t have you, and now I just—your life is so much more complicated than mine. I—I guess I was worried you wouldn’t be able to find a place in all of it for me. That,” Steve drops his hand from Bucky’s skin, leaving him cold where Steve’s heat was, and looks away, “that it was infatuation, or something, because I’m Stevie Grant.”

It's Bucky’s turn to reach out, his fingertips ghosting over Steve’s jaw to turn him back toward Bucky. “Hey, hey, you know I never cared about that.” Bucky shakes his head, dropping his fingers to curl them at Steve’s collar. “You’re just Steve Rogers to me.” Bucky places his forehead against Steve’s—in support, in understanding, maybe in a promise.

“Bucky.” Steve breathes out his name. “I don’t want you to regret me.”

Bucky opens his mouth—not exactly sure what to say in response to the gravity of Steve’s confession—but then the timer on the stove goes off, and Bucky grudgingly lets Steve go when he starts to pull away.

Steve lets the bacon cool atop the stove while he plates up some waffles on a serving tray, probably to take to Sarah in bed. Steve gets out syrup, pours a glass of orange juice, and then adds a few strips of bacon and a small bowl of fruit. Bucky grabs the kettle just as it starts to sound and adds her cup of tea and the saucer to the tray.

“Steve,” Bucky catches him as he starts to make his way out of the kitchen. Steve turns back toward him and Bucky takes a flower from the vase he filled, setting it down across the top of the tray. “I can’t guarantee I won’t regret you, or that you won’t find some reason to regret me—but we’ll never know unless we take a chance on us—on _this_.” He motions between the two of them.

Steve looks at him for a long moment and Bucky tries not to feel sized up. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

Bucky steps closer, small smile on his lips. “I want you to kiss me again.” Steve looks down at the tray of food in his hands and Bucky clarifies, “Not right now, just…eventually.”

Steve bites his lip, “Okay.”

Bucky beams. “Okay?”

Shaking his head, Steve turns and begins back out of the kitchen. “Yes. Now go to work.”

Bucky makes an indignant sound but laughs at Steve’s retreating back. “Tell Sarah I said ‘Hi!’”

-

-

Bucky tries not to let Sam’s going-away-party be a somber affair. He and Freddie pull out all the stops, making tons of appetizers and desserts. Bucky even breaks out his mother’s punch bowl, he and Freddie mixing up Becca’s top-secret punch. Freddie insisted on balloons and a banner, and Bucky’s glad he let the boy convince him.

The backyard-turned-party-space looks perfect, if Bucky does say so himself.

Sam, of course, has other thoughts.

“This is too much, Buck. Seriously.”

Bucky ignores the half-hearted protest and slings an arm over his shoulder. The balloons sway a little in the breeze and the music flowing from the speaker is just loud enough to thrum in Bucky’s head. “Sam. Buddy. Pal. You’d break the kid’s heart if he didn’t get to throw you this party.”

“Mmhmm.” Sam gives Bucky a flat look, like he’s not fooled at all. “You really just gonna push it off on the Fredster when I know you mope for a week after I leave.”

Bucky drops his arm from Sam’s shoulder with an indignant sound. “I do _not_!”

“Well now, Sugar Pie, of course you do.” Sarah strides up next to them, shooting a wink at Sam.

He looks between the two of them grinning at each other until Sam shrugs. “She writes me letters, remember?”

Bucky lets out a huff. “Unbelievable. I don’t know why I put up with you two.” He leans over to grab a tomato chip, eating it aggressively as he walks away from them. All he hears is Sam’s chuckles and Sarah’s tinkling laughter. Bobbi and Wanda grin at him as he stalks past them.

He finds Freddie by the cornhole set up and gets roped into playing with him for a little bit, until Scott and his daughter show up, then Freddie abandons him for someone his own age. Bucky doesn’t take it personally, especially not when Steve comes up beside him, quietly placing a hand in Bucky’s and giving it a small squeeze before letting go.

Bucky gives him a small smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Steve grins back, lifting the little plate with pavlova on it toward Bucky. “Don’t tell my mother, but yours is better.”

Bucky takes a half step back, moving his hand up to cover his heart. “Oh no you don’t. I will not be complicit in any kind of dismantling of Sarah’s baking status.”

Steve just shrugs, taking another bite. “Wouldn’t be the first secret we’ve kept from her.”

He doesn’t look at Bucky when he says it, but Bucky keeps watching him anyway. He leans closer to Steve, dropping his voice to whisper in his ear. “It doesn’t have to be a secret.”

Steve looks over at him, a slow smile spreading on his face. “Good, because I hate secrets.”

Steve saunters away, finishing off his dessert, and Bucky can’t help but laugh a little to himself as he makes his way over to mingle with some of the new arrivals.

It’s not until a little later, after practically the whole neighborhood, his entire staff, and half of Freddie’s baseball team fills his backyard that it starts to hit him. Other years, when Sam had left, Bucky would call up Becca, or sometimes Gabe, and talk to them for hours, just to hear the sound of their voices, take comfort in knowing he wasn’t alone. But there’s no Becca, no Gabe. It’s just him and Freddie—their little family—and Sam. He should be used to the leaving, knows that it’s inevitable, but being without his best friend for so long each year eats away at him. He can’t fall apart, though. He has to be strong for Freddie’s sake, if not his own. And besides, he’s not alone this time, not really. He’s got Freddie now. And hopefully Steve, if things go well.

Bucky finds Sam talking to Howard and Maria. They all laugh about something together, but Bucky doesn’t really hear it, just snags Sam without any complaints, walking to a slightly more secluded corner of the yard.

Sam finally turns to him. “What’s up, Man?”

But Bucky just pulls him into a tight hug. “I’m gonna miss you, Sammy.”

“Aww, Bucky-duck.”

Bucky pulls back to look at him, only to have Sam ruffle his hair. It’s just past his jaw now, but Bucky oddly likes his long hair. He tries to smooth it back into place while Sam grins. “I was trying to have a moment, Sam.”

Sam’s grin sobers a little. “I’ll be back before you know it, Buck.” Bucky just hums at the familiar rebuttal.

Later, when most of the party-goers have left, and it’s just the five of them left—Bucky, Freddie, Sam, Sarah, and Steve—they sit around the table, cooling off with the last of the lemonade and assorted food.

Bucky notices Steve and Sam exchange phones and narrows his eyes. “What are you doing?”

Sam looks up once he’s done, an innocent look plastered on his face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Bucky looks to Steve, eyes wide. “Don’t fall for his tricks, Steve. Sam is a bad influence, I swear to god.”

“Aww, look! Bucky’s jealous that I have other friends and he doesn’t.” Freddie laughs at Sam’s words and Bucky shoots him a betrayed look.

“Samuel Thomas Wilson, I won’t have you conspiring with any more of them behind my back.” He points an accusing finger at Sam. “First Sarah becomes your pen-pal, then you and Freddie start emailing. What’s next, skyping with Steve?”

Steve has the grace to flush a little. “Actually, my mom gave me Sam’s number a while ago. I was showing him a meme.”

“And,” Sarah adds, looking cool and collected as always, even with the wrap on her wrist, as she picks up a chip and some dip from her plate, “Sam, the dear, also writes me letters back.” The chip crunches when she bites. “How else do you think he keeps tabs on you?”

Bucky throws his head back in defeat, thumping it against the hard back of the chair a couple times. “I refuse to be chopped liver in my own home.” He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at Sam. “When do you leave again?”

“As soon as the cab gets here.” Sam stands up, grin plastered on his face. “But oh my god, you really _are_ jealous! You’re gonna _miss_ me,” he sing-songs.

“I hate you.”

“You _love_ me.”

Bucky doesn’t give in, even when Sam leans down and gives him a bear hug. Freddie moves his chair over to sit right beside Bucky, and Bucky wraps an arm around him when Sam finally gets off of Bucky. “Why don’t you email him, too, Uncle Bucky?”

Bucky opens his mouth, floundering for a second. “What’s so wrong with phone calls?”

Sam rolls his eyes as Freddie laughs. “Welcome to this century, Buck.”

Even Steve laughs a little at him. Bucky tries to glare his way, but the smile on Steve’s face is contagious and melts Bucky’s mock-affront. He turns back to Sam, blatantly ignoring the raised eyebrow and look he throws between Bucky and Steve. “Just try not to forget me amidst all your adoring fans, okay?”

“Aww, Bucky! You’ll always be my number one.” Sam reaches down to mess Freddie’s hair when the boy looks up at him with a pout. “You and Freddie both.”

A honk sounds from out front. Bucky extends a hand and Sam grabs it. “Until next time, brother.”

Sam nods, grin replaced by an uncharacteristically serious expression. “Until next time, my main man.”

Sam leaves with one more giant hug for each of them, and Bucky keeps his arm around Freddie until long after the other man has gone.

-

-

The Family Game approaches quicker than Bucky anticipates, and with it, the end of Freddie’s baseball season. They made it to number four in their division overall, and Thor could not contain his excitement for the kids on the team at the end of their final game—a loss, but it left them all with high spirits and smiles.

Today, the kids and families arrive with those same smiles in place. Bucky had waited until after the last game to tell Freddie he was going to play, and the boy had been ecstatic, jumping onto Bucky where he sat on the back-porch table. So, when they arrive, Bucky feels good in his baseball tee and hat, striding confidently in his cleats over to Howard and Maria. Tony rushes over to meet Freddie halfway and the two chatter while Bucky talks with the Starks. Luckily, the way the teams were arranged allowed for them all to be on the same team—and also, luckily for them, the loud mom is on the other team, far away from their sensitive ears for the game. Bucky catches Thor’s eye when he notices, Thor giving him a wink before going back to checking all the gear.

The stands are crowded already, whatever friends and family aren’t playing showing up to watch the game. Bucky spots Sarah as they line up for first inning, waving animatedly at them from where she sits near Wanda, Hunter, Scott, and his daughter, Cassie. He knows Bobbi and Robbie would be there if they could, but someone had to be at the shop. Bucky waves back and gets Freddie’s attention, too. For a moment, Bucky feels the slow crush of disappointment at not seeing Steve—but he gets over it just as quickly. He always knew the chances of Steve coming to one of Freddie’s games would be slim to none. But with Sam gone, the absence of another body in the stands to cheer them on doesn’t go unnoticed.

As the home side, their team makes their way to the field, the least experienced parents and guardians shadowing their children where they can, and the others dividing themselves up into the leftover positions. The other team lines up to bat. Bucky follows Freddie out to shortstop while a kid named Jimmy takes to the pitcher’s mound.

He sees Maria in left field by Tony, and Howard nearby in center field.

“Let’s get this game going!” Howard yells, and a whoop goes up across the diamond.

A batter steps up the home plate and the game begins.

There’s a batter on third when they get the last of their three outs—Rhodey on first with the catch—but no runs yet when they head back to the dugout to line up to bat. Tony bats first and—to no one’s surprise, lands them their first run of the night, the poor parents in the outfield exhausting themselves by running so far for the ball. Bucky stifles a laugh and Freddie elbows him in the gut for it. It’s the only run of the inning, and it ends relatively quickly as the game continues. By the top of the third, though, the other team makes two runs. Bucky tries his best to console Freddie when the boy misses an impossible catch that he still berates himself for. He puts his arm around the boy’s shoulders, the two of them still toward the end of the line as their team takes to bat. Bucky just happens to look out at the crowd, maybe needing to see Sarah’s familiar face—because she would know what to do, what to say, somehow—and stops when he sees the unmistakable silhouette of Steve standing on the ground near the back of the bleachers, trying his best to be hidden out of sight.

But Bucky would know the set of those shoulders anywhere, sees a hint of the unmistakable blond hair under the baseball cap Steve wears, eyes hidden by aviator shades. On either side of him is T’Challa and Natasha, with a woman Bucky doesn’t recognize next to her. He thinks by the way they hold each other’s hands that this must be Natasha’s wife. But Bucky only has eyes for Steve, and Steve stares back at him, a small smile playing at his lips at how off-guard Bucky is. He has just enough sense to bend down and whisper in Freddie’s ear, the boy plastering on a much-needed grin when he spots Steve by Bucky’s instructions, the other man giving them both a thumb’s up that’s so cheesy it’s somehow adorable. And then just as quickly Bucky takes his eyes away, blushing and shaking his head, trying to get his thoughts back in the game. They get the bases loaded, but it’s a struggle. In the end, they only get one more run, and then the other team tallies ahead in the top of the fourth.

By the bottom of the fifth, it’s still 3-1 visitors, and it starts to affect them all. The first two people up to bat get outs—the parent and child both looking like they might cry—but then someone’s dad steps up to bat—Freddie whispers to Bucky that it’s Deke’s dad, like he’s supposed to know who that is—and hits a near-foul that somehow stays good and makes it to first with time to spare. It rejuvenates them all, gives them a second wind as the inning continues. They nickel and dime the hits until the bases are loaded—with too many foul balls, but no more outs, and then a little girl named Lila steps up to the plate with her mother and father cheering her on—and makes another hit. It’s just enough for Deke’s dad to slide into home before Lila’s pop ball gets caught and the game moves into the final inning.

At 3-2 away, they do their best to keep the score down and somehow manage to not get any more runs. But as they make their way into the bottom of the sixth, and Bucky realizes it will be his turn to bat soon, nerves start to overtake him.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Kiddo. God, how do you do it?”

Freddie looks up at him, bat in his hands. “You just hit the ball, Uncle Bucky.”

“‘Hit the ball,’ he says, like it’s _so_ easy.” Bucky had put up air quotes but drops them to smile softly down at his nephew. Freddie shrugs in response, putting on his helmet. Rhodey steps up to bat first, starting their hits out with a bang by getting a home run. Their team cheers at the tie-up, and he hears the crowd join them. Rhodey’s mom steps up next and follows with another hit, stopping securely on first. After that, it’s hit and miss, the few people in line to bat between Bucky and home plate whittles down to just Freddie, with Rhodey’s mom on third and someone else on second, and one out stacked against them.

Freddie gets a strike on his first swing, but from where Bucky waits on deck, he claps anyway. “It’s okay, Bud. You got this. Just hit the ball, remember?” He hears Howard and Maria’s obnoxious cheers from where they sit on the bench in the dugout and tries to block out the good-natured hazing coming from the other team. Freddie takes a deep breath and settles himself before the next pitch comes. He manages to hit a roller, going straight between third and shortstop, giving Rhodey’s mom on third the time she needs to run to home, while Freddie makes it to first, and then keeps going to second—running like a blur, kicking up dust behind him, tying the game 3-3. A cheer goes up at the play, and then the runner who hit third takes advantage of the excitement, making a run for home, even when a yell rises from their team, telling them to go back—but it’s too late, and the ball makes it to the catcher before they do, giving their team a second out.

It's down to Bucky—and surely, this is some cosmic joke. He’s a florist, not a baseball player, for goodness sake. But he steps up to home plate regardless, his eyes straying for a moment to find Steve amidst the excitement. He steps a little closer, still staying back where the masses can’t see him, and takes off his sunglasses. Bucky can’t make out the words Steve mouths to him, but by the confident nod he gives Bucky, he’s sure it’s some variation of “you can do it” or “you got this” and it sets Bucky at ease, especially when he looks back to the diamond in front of him and sees Freddie lift his hands in the air at Bucky.

He smiles, remembering back to Steve’s lesson in the batting cage. He plants his feet, relaxes his grip on the bat, bends at the knees and the hips, and stares down the other team’s pitcher. He can do this. He focuses on his breathing, keeping his eye on the ball as it launches forward. Bucky’s first instinct is to swing, but he makes himself stand still. The ball comes in a little low and he hears the faint sound of what might be clapping, but then he’s gearing up for the next pitch. Bucky swings this time, the clank of ball and bat fooling him into thinking he hit it, but the ball goes foul and Bucky groans in disappointment.

Bucky tries focusing even harder, watches the way the next pitch starts, the angle of the arm, the speed of the ball—and he swears he’s seen Freddie throw something like that before with Steve. It only takes a split second for him to remember, and when he does, he holds back his swing for an extra moment, not fooled by how fast the ball seems to be coming toward him. When he brings the bat forward, he puts as much strength as he can in the swing—

And the ball flies. The crack is music to his ears, and Bucky drops the bat, running to first as fast as he can. He’s not sure which direction his hit went, but when he pivots on first, he sees Freddie run through third, heading for home, so Bucky keeps running, too, knowing it’s now or never, taking a chance—because what’s there to lose?

He runs, eyes skittering between second and home, watching his path and Freddie’s. Freddie’s momentum takes him to home base, getting in one final run that—impossibly—wins them the game.

At that point, Bucky doesn’t even care that he gets out before he makes it to second—because the game ends, and Freddie runs toward him, helmet lost somewhere behind him, and Bucky drops to his knees and holds out his arms as Freddie catapults into them, nearly knocking him over. “We did it! We did it!” Freddie’s mantra nearly gets lost in the cheers and clapping, the sound of bodies rushing the field, their team and the families in the stands, spilling out into the diamond like a wave.

The other team slowly makes their way to the dugout, Freddie and Bucky nearly the only ones not near home base in celebration. Bucky looks for Steve over Freddie’s shoulder, but can’t find him in the crowd. He sees his group still on the bleachers, standing up and he’s sure whooping and hollering at them if he knows Sarah. He smiles and waves, making them jump in excitement.

He tries not to look for Steve again, but can’t help scanning the crowd. He frowns only for a moment, before Freddie pulls away, pointing at something in right field before he lets out a shriek and runs away. Bucky’s slower to get up, to turn around—and when he does, a smile breaks out on his face. Steve runs toward Freddie and when they meet, Steve lifts Freddie up into a spin that is completely to blame for the dizzy feeling in Bucky’s head as he walks over, taking off his helmet. Steve puts Freddie down and then bends at the knees, letting Freddie climb onto his back as Steve returns to his full height. When Steve sees Bucky, he turns his head to say something to Freddie and Bucky hears the sound of the boy’s laughter right as Steve lets go of one of Freddie’s legs to grab his arm, repeating it with the other, until Steve holds both of Freddie’s hands up in victory, bending over just a little so the boy won’t fall, before he jogs the rest of the distance to Bucky, Freddie’s smile a beacon, looking like every inch the hero of the game he is.

Bucky doesn’t think about it when he finally makes it to the other two, just slips his arms around Steve’s waist regardless of the helmet he still holds, leaning into his side in an approximation of a hug. Steve’s eyes meet Bucky’s, and there’s pride there, and happiness—and something else, a softness, that puts a flutter in Bucky’s stomach.

And then Steve leans over and presses his lips to Bucky’s cheek. And Bucky’s sort of sweaty and covered in dust, but Steve’s lips are warm and solid on Bucky’s skin, and Freddie giggles at them from over Steve’s shoulder when Steve pulls back to again stare into Bucky’s eyes, goofy smile on his face that Bucky mirrors—and it’s so fucking perfect that Bucky never wants this moment to end.

Which is, of course, when Tony, Howard, and Maria come rushing up, Tony stopping for a moment to look on in awe at Stevie Grant—no matter how many times he sees the man, he still doesn’t quite seem to manage to put away his hero-worship, and Bucky stifles a laugh—while Howard and Maria yell out a series of catcalls that tinge Steve’s cheeks pink. And off further to the right by the end of the fence stands Natasha and T’Challa shaking their heads a little at the display. Steve shrugs in their direction, but Bucky notices the soft smiles they shoot in Steve’s direction when Steve’s not looking. Natasha’s wife leans against the fence, grinning and clapping along with everyone else. By the time Sarah and his workers join them, Steve has put Freddie back on the ground to hug his friend and rejoin their teammates.

Steve and Bucky stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Sarah comes over to hug them both. “James! You did wonderfully, my dear! I’m so proud of you.”

Bucky looks away, shifting a little closer to Steve. “Thanks, but I just had a good teacher.”

He’s not expecting it when Steve’s hand moves around Bucky’s waist, drawing him closer. “That was all you, Bucky. It’s okay to be proud of yourself.”

It feels like an inverse of their moment in the elevator at the hospital. This time, though, it’s real, and Bucky doesn’t have to wonder about how Steve feels. Bucky leans into the touch, chancing a glance back up at Sarah—maybe in question, maybe in hoping for her blessing in some way, or conveying to her things he doesn’t think he can say out loud, about how Steve makes him feel.

Her grin turns to something sweeter when she catches Bucky’s eye. Bucky looks to Steve, taking a deep breath, managing somehow to get the words out of his mouth. “I think it’s safe to say our secret isn’t a secret anymore.”

Steve’s lips twitch at the corners. He leans a little closer, whispering, “Good,” just before he brings his lips to Bucky’s. He can still feel the curve of Steve’s smile when they pull away, and it makes him giddy. “I don’t want to hide how I feel about you.”

Bucky’s heart ricochets in his chest. He opens his mouth to respond but gets interrupted before he can.

“Oh, _Steven_.” They both turn to glance at Sarah as she steps forward, eyes shining with emotion in the bright August sun. She puts a palm against each of their cheeks, looking fondly between them. “My darling, darling boys.” She sniffles. “Just promise me you’ll invite me to the wedding this time.”

Steve and Bucky groan in unison.

-

-

A few weeks later, Bucky comes home, walking into his house with a smile on his lips. It had been a very productive day at the shop, finally hiring some fresh blood—a nice guy named Mack who they’re taking on full-time, and a part-time physicist/part-time botany expert named Bruce that Bucky sought out to help the longevity of their flower life in the greenhouse. As his manager, Bobbi had handled most of the interviewing, with Bucky there more as a final say than anything else, but he’d been pleasantly surprised by the two men, and when Mack had started talking about his daughter, Hope, Bucky knew he wanted him at the flower shop. He gets home a little later than usual that night but can’t be bothered when he left feeling so good about things. Overall, Bucky’s excited at what the year will bring—for both him and for Freddie, since the boy starts school again in just a week.

Bucky knows it’s going to be a good year. Freddie’s finally turning into that carefree kid Bucky remembers. He wants to believe he’s got something to do with it, but he’s sure it’s the combination of Freddie’s friends, his gentle parenting, Sam’s steady words of encouragement when he can, and the oversight of both Sarah and Steve when Bucky can’t be there. Freddie is at a better place than he’s been in a really long time.

And thinking of places, Bucky looks for Freddie, calling the boy’s name but to no avail. He shakes his head, peeking out the kitchen window to see Sarah’s car gone from the drive. Bucky has a suspicion Freddie’s over there regardless, as he has been most afternoons during the week when Bucky comes home from work. Bucky washes his hands before he leaves, taking the time to untie his hair from its small ponytail—because it’s long enough now, and having his hair up works wonders in the greenhouse. He totally gets why people with long hair wear it up—and then heads out the back, over to Sarah’s.

He goes in through the kitchen, hearing first the low rumble of TV from somewhere inside, then notes the discarded sketchpad face down on the nook table, near the vase of flowers Bucky brought over the day before. He spares a smile, going over to flip the pad open, taking a moment to admire the still-life sketch of the vase, with what Bucky thinks might’ve been the early afternoon sun slanting over it. Bucky thinks of Steve, working in the natural light while Sarah danced around him, maybe a little irritated at him taking up so much of the table space, but smiling all the same at the fact that Steve was drawing again. That is, until Freddie came over to disturb him, making him abandon his art in favor of entertaining the boy. Bucky sets the notepad back down as gently as he can then heads further into the house.

In the living room, the sound of the television grows louder, soft light of the screen flickering over the drawn curtains, darkening the room almost to night. He stops in the entryway, taking in the scene before him. Freddie lies curled up on the couch, one of Sarah’s crocheted blankets half-heartedly thrown over him, his bare feet sticking out the bottom. His head rests on Steve’s chest, mouth open in sleep. Steve’s arm cradles him, head bent at the neck so his cheek rests against Freddie’s newly shorn hair, feet up and crossed at the ankles on the coffee table. He’s asleep, too.

Bucky thinks about taking his phone from his pocket, snapping a quick picture to email to Sam—because he’s been doing that now—or maybe show Sarah. But no, this moment is just for him, just for them. But eventually, Bucky knows he has to wake them up, if to do nothing more than take Freddie home to his own room. He slowly steps over, trying to be quiet. He finds the remote, discarded on the couch near Steve’s empty side. Bucky bends down to reach for it, then points it at the TV. It goes off with a click, the absence of sound and light plunging the room into a strange silence. Bucky starts to take a step away, but then Steve moves on the couch, making a small sound, and blinks his eyes open.

It takes him a moment to work through the confusion, and Bucky waits, small smile playing at his lips, until Steve finally seems to notice him. “Bucky?”

“Shh,” Bucky whispers, motioning to Freddie. Steve confusedly follows his hand and blinks at the sight of Freddie asleep against him before he smiles, patting the boy gently with the arm around him. Steve looks back at Bucky when he moves closer, coming to stand by Steve’s outstretched legs, between the coffee table and the couch.

He looks at Bucky with hazy, sleep soft eyes, flushed from the nap, and it’s the most beautiful thing Bucky’s ever seen. Reaching down, Bucky slowly cups Steve’s face in his hands before he leans down to press a kiss to his lips. It’s just a soft flutter of a thing, but Steve makes an appreciative sound nonetheless, closing his eyes again when Bucky pulls away, crooked smile on Steve’s lips.

And god, it still amazes Bucky that he gets to do this—gets to see this side of Steve, gets to have him like this in his life. It’s more than Bucky ever thought possible, maybe more than he would’ve once thought he deserved—but not now. Now, with Steve’s eyes opening to look at him again, face all contentment and satisfaction, Bucky knows that Steve deserves him, and when Steve reaches up to trace his thumb over Bucky’s jaw, he knows that he deserves Steve just as much.

Bucky kisses him one more time, then sighs and moves away, reaching for Freddie. But Steve stops him with a touch at his wrist, and when Bucky shoots him a questioning look, Steve just shakes his head, still smiling a little, before he starts to slowly ease himself out from under the boy. He grabs a throw pillow and puts it under Freddie’s head before he points up, and suddenly Bucky gets it. He follows Steve up the stairs without a word, not wanting to disrupt Freddie before he had to by whatever Steve wanted to tell him.

Steve grabs Bucky’s hand as they make their way to the top of the stairs, turning toward him at the last minute to raise Bucky’s hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Bucky feels a little breathless when he asks, “W-what are we doing up here?”

Steve lowers Bucky’s hand but doesn’t let go, using it to pull at Bucky a little as Steve walks backwards down the hallway. “I wanna show you something before you go. C’mon.”

Bucky follows dutifully, heart slowly picking up rhythm in his chest. Steve leads him down to the second bedroom, and Bucky flushes a little in a spike of shame at how he acted the last time he was in this room, yelling at Steve over his own fears and insecurities. But Steve looks as though he doesn’t remember or doesn’t care and flips on the light as they make their way inside.

Unsure of just what’s going on, Bucky follows Steve over to stand in front of his easel, cloth draped over it to protect the painting underneath. Steve doesn’t let go of his hand until then, until he reaches out for the cloth. He holds it in his hands for a long moment before he turns to Bucky, looking for the first time since Bucky’s known him, insecure, maybe apprehensive.

“I, uh, I’ve been working on a painting for a little while now. At first it was just something I couldn’t get out of my head.” Bucky watches in fascination as Steve blushes just a bit, but his eyes keep steadily looking into Bucky’s. “Then, I really wanted to try out the paint set you got me, so I started coloring it.” He chuckles a little to himself when Bucky smiles. “So, thanks for that.” Steve stops, licking his lips a little, looking nervous. “You’re—I wanted you to see it first. Just don’t…laugh, or anything.”

Bucky reaches out, a pang shooting in his chest for Steve, and gives Steve’s shoulder a soft squeeze. “Steve. I would never laugh at your art. It’s amazing.”

The other man finally breaks eye contact at that, looking down for a moment before he seems to steel himself, lifting the cloth off the easel, revealing the painting.

It takes Bucky’s breath away. He wasn’t aware art could do that until this moment. The colors, the style—so realistic Bucky would wonder how it’s not a picture if he couldn’t see the little brushstrokes, couldn’t see the layers over layers of paint, built up to create something new and wonderful.

Bucky’s face looks back at him from the canvas, his arms wrapped around Freddie, the two of them posing, smiling for a non-existent camera, for the eye of the painter—for Steve. They look happy, whole, with flowers popping up at the bottom of the background, both smiling wide. The play of light and shadow is just as excellent as Bucky would expect from Steve, the colors both vivid and subdued. He gets the perfect brown of Freddie’s eyes, his own light eyes popping with the cool summer sky behind them, and he gets lost taking it all in.

It’s Bucky’s face, but not really. He looks better than the mirror ever showed him, painted through Steve’s eyes—the way that _Steve_ sees him. And it shouldn’t make him have so many emotions realizing that, but Bucky can’t help the clutch at his throat, the way his heart kicks into overdrive. “Steve.” He whispers the man’s name with all the emotion rising up inside of him. It’s too much—Bucky feels too raw, staring at this disquieting reflection of himself, too overwhelmed with his own feelings toward Steve, with seeing those same feelings mirrored in every careful brushstroke, in every exquisite, careful detail.

He looks away, his eyes compelled to Steve’s, locking onto him, unable to stray even if Bucky wanted them too. Steve stares back, that hopeful, soft expression on his face again. “Do—do you like it, Buck?”

Bucky shakes his head, unable to form words, afraid that if he opens his mouth now and tells Steve how it makes him feel—how _he_ makes Bucky feel—that he’ll never be able to stop. Instead, he closes the distance between them, reaching out for Steve, needing to feel him, to hold him and kiss him. Steve complies, wrapping his arms around Bucky as Bucky does the same, closing the distance between them to slot their mouths together. The kiss steadies Bucky, and he drags his hands up over Steve’s back to twine around his neck when they pull away.

With inches between them, Steve’s hands soothing up and down over Bucky’s waist, Bucky presses one last kiss to Steve’s cheek. “It’s wonderful.” A pause, until Bucky has Steve’s undivided attention, and then, “I love it.”

Steve’s eyes flutter closed, everything unsaid hanging between them. Then Steve opens his eyes again, holding Bucky impossibly closer, framed in the light streaming in from the little window on the top floor of his mother’s house. “So do I.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are accepted and appreciated!
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://freshwoods.tumblr.com/)!


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